Книга - As You Like it

As You Like it
Lori Wilde


Marissa Sturgess is ambitious, determined and in full control of everything. That is, until she's sent to New Orleans to entice a roguish video-game designer into creating a brand-new one to help couples explore their sexual fantasies. Little does she realize that she'll be his inspiration!Delectable bachelor Beau Thibbedeaux has his own designs, however, and he plans on teaching Marissa a few things about steamy desires and letting go. But he never expects the ultrasexy assignment–nor Marissa–to be this consuming….The game has begun. The rules have been forgotten. And the nights have never been hotter….









“Now you’re just toying with me,” she said


Inhaling sharply, Marissa forced herself to meet Beau’s gaze, when peering into those fascinating silver-gray orbs was the last thing she ever wanted to do. She couldn’t allow him to intimidate her. But when she did look into his eyes, something strange happened. All her bravado, all her strength of will vanished.

In this moment, he was just a man and she was just a woman. He might appear laid-back and easygoing, but beneath that languid exterior she detected a current of something hot, taut and incredibly alive. The man was raw dynamite. Sex personified.

She was in serious trouble, Marissa realized with a sinking sensation. She had longed for a repeat performance since she’d kissed him yesterday in order to win their latest game. And now, here he was, standing beside her, his gaze glued to hers, wearing nothing but a bedsheet and the sexiest damn smile she had ever laid eyes on….







Dear Reader,

To me, the most intriguing part of the writing process is coming up with compelling characters. Most of the time, I’m drawn to either nurturing heroines (must have been all those years I spent as a nurse) or shy types who learn to take risks (must have been all those years I spent as a wallflower). Secretly, however, there was a part of myself that scared me a little. A part I was afraid to face head-on. The cutthroat competitive part that allowed me to pursue publication with such intense determination.

With this book, I decided it was time to face this aspect of my personality. I was going to write about a highly competitive, highly driven heroine who has to learn to stop “doing” and just “be.” I knew then the only man in the world who could teach Marissa her life lesson was laid-back, easygoing Beau (must have been the past seven wonderful years with my own unhurried, rock-steady hero). Not only did writing about a different sort of heroine turn out to be a lot of fun, but I learned a great deal about myself in the process.

I hope you enjoy Marissa and Beau’s love story and I’d love to hear what you think about the book. You can write to me at Lori Wilde, P.O. Box 31, Weatherford, TX 76086 or e-mail me at LoriWilde02@yahoo.com or visit me on the Web at www.loriwilde.com.

Lori Wilde




As You Like It

Lori Wilde







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Kathryn Lye—thank you for your sharp eye and great story sense.

Every author should be so lucky to have such an editor.




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

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15




1


“GREAT SEX isn’t just about mind-blowing orgasms and Fourth of July fireworks.”

Apparently not, Marissa Sturgess thought.

Leaning back in the tweed-cloth swivel chair, she doodled aggressively on her yellow legal pad and listened to Francine Phillips, the lab-coated clinician from the renowned Baxter and Jackson Sex Research Institute, address the Pegasus software team assembled around the paper-strewn wood-laminate conference table. The team consisted of the two remaining account managers—one of whom was Marissa—a system analyst, four programmers and the president of Pegasus, Judd Thompson.

If great sex was just about excellent technique she wouldn’t have found a rather insulting Dear Jane letter from her investment-banker boyfriend, Steve, propped against the salt and pepper shakers on her kitchen table that very morning, ending their three-month relationship.

As he put it, she was too intense in life in general and in the bedroom specifically. He needed someone more lighthearted, spontaneous and fun.

Yeah, okay, all right. Obviously, she was so intense Steve had resorted to dumping her via a scribbled note rather than confronting her face-to-face.

The coward. Running away and robbing her of the opportunity for rebuttal. She’d taken his stupid note, methodically shredded it into a hundred little pieces and flushed it down the toilet.

“Our extensive research with happily married couples has shown us that great sex demands not only trust, caring and honesty, but above all else…” Francine continued and then paused as if waiting for a drumroll.

Marissa tossed her head to shake away all thoughts of Steven J. Thortonberry the Third and get her mind back on the task at hand. She’d already wasted a good ten minutes fretting over the breakup. Enough was enough. Time to move on. She refused to linger on defeat.

Besides, it wasn’t losing Steve that bothered her so much as it was his accusation she was too serious in the sack.

“You go at sex like it’s a corporate takeover, Marissa. Can’t you ever just relax and enjoy the moment?” he’d asked her on several occasions.

In a nutshell? No. To Marissa’s way of thinking, relaxation was grossly overrated and a handy excuse for lazy people.

As the only child of Brigadier General Dwight D. Sturgess she had learned to attack life with verve and gusto; giving a hundred and twenty percent to any project she tackled, including sex. Her mother had died when she was a baby and it had just been her and her dad. At an early age, Marissa had discovered being the best was the only sure way to guarantee her father’s respect.

Her resulting lust for success had served her well in the business world, but in her personal life…well, in her experience most men didn’t appreciate a competitive woman.

At least not when it came to physical intimacy.

And now here was this plump, gray-haired, bespectacled grandmotherly woman standing behind the podium at the head of the conference table, a laser pointer in her hand, lecturing on the fundamentals of great sex. And according to the theory she was putting forth, Marissa simply didn’t measure up.

“Truly transcendental sex must include a sense of whimsy.” Francine used the pointer to highlight her presentation on the plasma screen featuring a laughing woman being pushed on a playground swing by an equally gleeful man.

“Whimsy?” The other account manager, Dash Peterson, asked.

“Fun, lightheartedness, humor.”

Dash winked suggestively across the table at Marissa. The man was a supreme egotist with a sleazy streak a mile wide. He fancied she wanted him as much as he wanted her and he was her chief competition for the promotion. Unfortunately, while Dash was a royal pain in the keester, he was also damn good at his job.

Marissa ignored him and focused her total attention on Francine. Baxter and Jackson made up thirty percent of Pegasus’s entire business and since premature labor had forced the current account director to leave her job three weeks earlier than planned, the sex institute’s account was now up for grabs. Whoever ended up managing that piece of the pie stood an excellent chance of becoming the next director.

And Marissa wanted the position more than she wanted to breathe.

For three years she’d been gunning for the job ever since she’d made the switch from systems liaison to marketing and joined the small but up-and-coming Manhattan software company with a very promising future. To that end, she’d done everything in her power to cultivate the right image.

Her goal?

Ooze success and convince everyone around her that she was a winner. If she looked and acted the part, sooner or later she was bound to get what she wanted.

Marissa kept her blond hair cut in a sleek, easy-to-manage, chin-length bob. She spent an hour a day at the gym to maintain the size eight figure she’d had since high school. She knew she wasn’t a ravishing beauty with her too-small eyes and her too-wide forehead but she had good cheekbones and she pampered her complexion with a plethora of beauty creams and potions.

And even though it required running up her credit cards a bit, she wore exquisitely tailored suits and look-at-me leather stilettos. Clothes might make the man, but in Marissa’s estimation the right footwear—from Manolo Blahnik to Jimmy Choo to Dolce and Gabbana—made the woman. Not that she was a true shoe-aholic in the vein of some women. It wasn’t the shoes themselves that set Marissa’s heart aflutter, but rather what those high-fashion accessories whispered to her.

See, Daddy, I am a winner.

So far, her attention to detail had paid off. Her last year’s productivity bonus equaled a fourth of her yearly salary. But her success only whet her appetite for bigger and better things. If she got the promotion and made a huge splash as Pegasus’s account director, she would enhance her cache with larger software firms. Marissa was determined to eventually become the most respected software-marketing director on the East Coast.

“Could you please elaborate about this whole whimsy thing, Francine? I want to make absolutely sure I have a handle on your proposed project.” Dash grinned at the Baxter and Jackson clinician, putting all four of his cheeky dimples into the smile.

Suck-up. Marissa flashed him the message with her eyes.

Don’t you know it, he flashed back.

“Why, certainly, Dash. Our extensive two-year study group has shown that a sense of fun is the key to long-term monogamous sex. And you would be surprised at how many couples don’t recognize their inner need for spontaneous, impulsive sex play.”

What a load of malarkey, Marissa thought. Playing pinch and tickle in the bedroom no more kept a marriage together than holiday traditions. What made a marriage succeed was hard work and dedication and facing problems head-on.

In her personal opinion the Baxter and Jackson research project oversimplified relationships, but hey, they were the clients. She wasn’t paid to have a personal opinion. She’d buy into anything they wanted her to buy into.

“Very informative,” Dash said. “And your theory explains why Marissa has trouble holding on to a man. She wouldn’t know fun if it bit her on the butt.”

“I don’t…” Marissa almost rose to the bait but then quickly clamped down on her tongue.

If Steve hadn’t just walked out on her, Dash’s comment wouldn’t have rankled. Normally his digs rolled right off her back, but today she yearned to wrap her hands around his neck and throttle him merely for the enjoyment of watching his eyes pop out.

From the opposite end of the conference table Judd Thompson cleared his throat. Judd was in his midfifties, although he looked ten years younger. He had once worked for the largest, most successful software company on the planet, and was the most computer-savvy man Marissa had ever met.

Judd expected a lot from his employees, but he wasn’t as demanding as her father. Naturally, he had a more civilian approach to life than the General, but like her old man, he prized achievement. She eagerly turned herself inside out to engender his accolades.

When Judd was happy with her performance, Marissa was happy.

“Pipe down, you two,” Judd chided with a frown. “Could we put the petty one-upmanship aside for at least a few minutes and allow Francine to finish detailing her requirements?”

Marissa nodded, sat up straighter and purposefully avoided looking at Dash.

“Thank you, Judd,” Francine said. “What we want from Pegasus on this project is a bit different from the software you’ve created for us in the past.”

“How so?” Dash asked.

“We’re interested in producing a virtual-reality video game promoting sex play among couples who’ve found their love life stagnating. An aid, if you will, for our patients who have difficulty letting their hair down and having fun.”

“But we don’t design video games,” piped up one of the programmers. “Especially virtual reality. That requires a completely different set of skills.”

“I’m sure we can find a way around that small obstacle,” Marissa said, knowing full well the obstacles were anything but small. “I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to keep Baxter and Jackson satisfied.”

Take that, Dash.

“I know a freelance designer,” Dash interrupted. “I’m sure if you selected me to manage your account I could wrangle a very good deal for you.”

“Actually.” Francine smiled. “We already have a designer in mind.”

“Oh?” Dash looked taken aback.

Marissa very professionally resisted the urge to pitch him a gloating smirk.

“Beau Thibbedeaux,” Francine said. “I’m assuming you’re all familiar with his work.”

A hushed, reverential silence fell over the room. Everyone in the software industry had heard of Beau Thibbedeaux. He was, arguably, the best video-game design architect ever to code a script.

Or at least he used to be.

Dash, Judd, the system liaison and the four programmers exchanged a look. Marissa didn’t know the whole story of the Beau Thibbedeaux scandal but apparently it had been a doozy.

The guy had been the biggest star at the largest video-game design company in the country. Hailed as a creative genius, he was a visionary far ahead of his time. From what she could gather through the industry grapevine, Thibbedeaux hated being rushed or pressured.

The rumor was he’d run afoul of a very influential, very impatient overseas client. Beau had simply walked away from the project with an unfinished design left on the table.

Marissa figured Thibbedeaux must have suffered some kind of mental or emotional meltdown because she could not fathom any other reason why the man would hightail it back home to Louisiana and leave the company stranded. Personally, she would rather lie down and die than disappoint her employer no matter how difficult the project or the client.

“Beau’s no longer in the business,” Judd said, but Marissa could tell from the speculative expression in his eyes that he would love to be responsible for luring Thibbedeaux back to Manhattan.

“I heard he’s a complete recluse,” another programmer added.

“The guy retired over two years ago,” Dash supplied. “Last I heard he owned a B and B or a restaurant or a bar or something like that in New Orleans.”

“We were hoping Pegasus could coax him out of retirement.” Francine steepled her fingers and glanced around the table.

“There are plenty of other qualified designers available,” Judd said. “Jack Firestein. Ashleigh Henning. Blair Downey to name a few.”

Francine was already shaking her head. “But none of those other candidates have Beau’s flare for pure, unadulterated fun. We’ve reviewed his video games. He’s the one we want.”

“I once worked with Beau. The guy is completely unstable and when he decides to dig his heels in, he digs his heels in. There’s no way he’s coming back.” Dash shook his head.

Dash’s easy capitulation surprised Marissa. She’d never known him to give up without a fight. She studied him, trying to figure out his angle.

“I’m sorry to hear you say that.” Francine’s face reflected her disappointment. “If Pegasus can’t make this happen for us perhaps there’s another software developer who can.”

Oooh, the plot thickens. Why was Francine so insistent on Thibbedeaux?

“Now, Francine, be reasonable,” Judd said, attempting to placate her. “If the man is retired, the man is retired.”

“We want Thibbedeaux.” Francine crossed her arms. For whatever reason, she wasn’t going to give an inch on this one.

Judd met Marissa’s gaze. She knew that look.

Are you my ace in the hole? Her boss’s expression quizzed. He hadn’t asked the nonverbal question of Dash, but of her. He’d chosen her as his go-to person. Pride swelled her chest. Yes, yes.

This is your chance. Jump in. Say something. Do it, do it, do it.

Excitement pushed Marissa to her feet. Anticipation had her slapping her palms against the smooth coolness of the tabletop. Enthusiasm had her vigorously nodding her head.

“I can make it happen,” she said, the words spilling from her mouth before she’d fully thought this commitment through.

All she knew was a very important client wanted something and it was her job to fill her clients’ needs. If she gave Baxter and Jackson what they wanted, Judd would be pleased. And if Judd was pleased, he would give her the promotion.

And the General would stop asking her why she was disappointing him by wasting her time at Pegasus when he felt she obviously would not get promoted there.

The new job would mollify her father. At least for a little while anyway.

Francine beamed at her. “Now that’s the kind of can-do spirit I’m looking for.”

Marissa possessed the upper hand and she knew it. Francine wanted Thibbedeaux.

Badly.

“We’re going to need more money,” she dared and thrilled to her own audacity. “This work is beyond the realm of what we normally perform for Baxter and Jackson. We will require twenty-five percent more than our usual fee.”

“Fifteen,” Francine countered.

“Twenty,” Marissa haggled, leaning forward in an aggressive stance. “And you pick up the tab for my travel expenses.”

From the corner of her eye she saw Judd watching their interaction like a spectator at Wimbledon, a wide grin on his craggy face. His approval fed her momentum and her boldness.

“Can you assure me you will get Thibbedeaux?” Francine asked.

“You have my word, one hundred percent.”

Judd got to his feet. “Could you excuse us for a minute?”

“Certainly,” Francine said and wagged a finger. “But I am counting on Marissa to accomplish what she has promised.”

How many times had similar words spurred her to climb higher and push harder? Nothing motivated her more than someone’s lofty expectations.

Once the door snapped closed with Francine on the other side of it, Dash let out a hoot of laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Marissa glared and sank her hands on her hips.

“Boy, are you screwed.”

“Just shut up.”

“I can’t get over the image of you traipsing through the muck of the Louisiana bayou in your la-di-da Manolo Blahniks and your smart little black miniskirt trying to convince a man more hardheaded than a pit bull to return to the city he hates. Priceless.”

“Overdoing the melodrama a bit, aren’t you, Peterson?” Marissa rearranged her papers. Dash was just jealous because she’d beaten him to the punch.

“And remember, you’ve got to talk Thibbedeaux into designing a sex video game.” He laughed again. “I know Beau. It ain’t gonna happen, Sturgess. When you come back with your tail between your legs, a complete failure, I’ll be the new account director and you’ll be answering to me.” He jerked a thumb at his chest.

Dash knew just how to bother her, but if he meant to dampen her resolve with his derision, he’d sorely miscalculated.

“You’re just pissy because I had the cajones to commit to the project before you did.”

Judd gave a sharp bark of laughter. “She’s got you there, Peterson.”

“No, I’m just trying to save her from humiliating herself. I know Thibbedeaux and she doesn’t. But hey, if she likes having egg plastered all over her face, let her go for it.” Dash dusted his palms together in a dismissive gesture.

Marissa met Judd’s gaze. “Am I officially managing the Baxter and Jackson account?”

“You did a splendid job of negotiating, Marissa. I’m proud of you,” her boss said.

She soaked up his praise. She was a sponge expanding to full size. Her chest tightened and her heart floated. But Judd wasn’t finished.

“However, Dash is right. Getting Thibbedeaux on board isn’t going to be easy.” He furrowed his forehead. “The man’s a complete eccentric.”

“You don’t think I can handle him?”

“It’s not you I’m concerned about.”

“I’m not without my charms, Judd.” She batted her eyelashes.

“Your sex appeal isn’t in question here, it’s Thibbedeaux. He’s a wild card. Are you certain you really want to tackle this obligation? It’s better to back out now than not deliver in the end. Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.”

“If I don’t commit to this, we’ll lose Baxter and Jackson as clients.”

“Quite possibly.”

“And if I do commit, I greatly improve our bottom line.”

“I take it that means you’re going out on the limb,” Judd said.

Marissa nodded. Challenge was her middle name. The dangling carrot was too juicy to ignore. That and the thought of rubbing the smile off Dash’s smug mug.

“I’ll guarantee you Thibbedeaux if you guarantee me the account-director position.”

“Done,” Judd said.

Yes! Mentally, Marissa did a victory dance. She knew just how to celebrate snatching this deal from Dash’s teeth.

For the last few weeks an adorable pair of six-hundred-dollar silver-and-azure Jimmy Choo sling backs had been calling her name. With her promotion practically in the bag, she could afford the splurge. After work this evening she was heading straight for Bergdorf Goodman.

Dash waylaid her in the corridor after the meeting. He took her by the elbow and tugged her aside. “Care to make it interesting,” he asked.

Marissa eyed him suspiciously. “What do you have in mind?”

“A wager.”

“What kind of wager?”

Dash raked a speculative gaze over her body.

“Forget it, you sleaze.” She yanked her elbow from his grasp.

“You misunderstand me. Much as I would enjoy the comfort of your hot bod, that’s not what I’m proposing.”

“No? Then what?”

“Five Benjamins says you can’t bring Thibbedeaux in.”

Marissa stared at her competitor. The idea that he was willing to bet against her to the tune of five hundred dollars had doubt creeping around inside her.

“I’m betting you have to sleep with him to get what you want.”

“You are such a jerk-off, you know that? I don’t have to lower myself to your level. I can convince Beau Thibbedeaux to take the job without any added sexual enticements.

“A thousand bucks says you can’t.” He extended a hand.

Phooey. She shook off her reservation. She’d proved once and for all she was a better negotiator than Dash.

“It’s a deal,” she said and slapped her palm into his.




2


“WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME you got laid?” Remy Thibbedeaux asked his older half brother and silent business partner, Beau.

Remy was polishing the bar with a dish towel and putting out fresh peanuts in anticipation of happy hour. The front door stood open and a light tourist crowd prowled the street. Several weeks from now the entire French Quarter would be wall-to-wall people in town for Mardi Gras.

But this afternoon the small Bourbon Street bar and grill was empty save for the two brothers and Leroy Champlain, a blind jazz musician who napped at the back table, soaking up the sunshine slanting in through the spotless window. His fastidious brother kept the place cleaner than an operating room, which was quite a feat considering their centuries-old location.

Beau sat cocked back on the two rear legs of a cane-bottomed café chair, tugged the brim of his New York Yankees baseball cap down lower over his forehead and took a lazy swig from his beer. “Can’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“I was thinking a pretty female might snap you out of your doldrums.”

“Well, you can stop thinking.”

“You worry me, Beau. Mopin’ around with nothing to do.”

“I’m not in the doldrums,” he denied. “And I’m certainly not moping.”

“So what would you call it?”

“Evaluating my options.”

“Bull. You’ve got nothing to occupy your mind. What with me running the bar and Jenny taking over the B and B you’ve simply got too much time on your hands.”

“Serious evaluating takes time.”

“I hope it’s your future you’re seriously evaluating. It’s been over eighteen months since you split the sheets with Angeline.”

“I didn’t break up with Angeline. She broke up with me.”

“’Cause you wouldn’t ask her to marry you.”

“A man doesn’t like to be rushed.”

Remy snorted. “You two went together for five years. Can’t say as how I blame the woman for wanting a commitment.”

“It wasn’t commitment that had me dragging my heels and you know it. Angeline and I simply weren’t right for each other.”

“It took you five years to figure that out?”

“We had our moments.”

“She never did get over you leaving Manhattan.”

“Nope.” Beau took another swig. He had been nursing the bottle all afternoon and the beer had grown warm. It tasted dry and yeasty. “She didn’t understand about connectedness.”

Remy shook his head. “You and this connectedness business.”

“Try having my childhood and see what you end up yearning for.”

“Point taken.”

A long companionable silence ensued, punctuated only by the squeak of Remy’s towel against the bar’s brass railing and Leroy’s soft snores.

“Do you ever miss it?” his brother asked a few minutes later.

“Miss what?”

“You know.”

“Manhattan?”

“Designing video games.”

“I still design them.”

“But not for profit. Creating sophisticated computer toys for my kids doesn’t count.”

“Profit’s just another word for selling out.”

“Spoken like a true rich man.”

“Don’t start with me.” Beau raised a finger. The one riff that existed between them was the issue of Beau’s mother.

Francesca Gregoretti Thibbedeaux MacTavish Girbaldi had been born with a platinum pasta fork in her mouth and a flare for the dramatic. She could trace her family lineage back to Christopher Columbus and she lived life with the full entitlement she believed was her due.

She’d met Beau’s dad when she was just sixteen and visiting America on a work visa for a modeling assignment. She’d fallen for Charles Thibbedeaux’s charm and he had tumbled for her beauty, not realizing she came from one of the wealthiest families in Europe. When Francesca got pregnant with Beau, Charles had dutifully married her in front of a justice of the peace at city hall and in that one fateful action brought down the wrath of the powerful Gregoretti clan.

And set the stage for the battle zone that became Beau’s childhood.

He had been through it all with his mother. Divorce, family squabbles, divorce, the numerous lovers, more divorce. But what hurt him the most were the prolonged periods of estrangement from his father and his two half siblings.

Francesca’s little dramas had been played out in lavish backdrops all over the world. A chalet in the Swiss Alps. A villa in Italy. A castle in Scotland. On the Concorde. On a Greek shipping magnate’s yacht. Riding the Orient Express.

From the bright lights of Las Vegas to the hustle and bustle of New York City to the exotic crush of Hong Kong, he’d trailed Hurricane Francesca and her wreck of human carnage.

Beau would have given his last breath to have spent his life at his father’s treasured ancestral home outside of New Orleans with Jenny and Remy and his sweet-natured stepmother, Camille.

But spoiled, pampered Francesca liked using him as a bargaining tool far too much to ever let him go.

Beau shook his head. He didn’t like dwelling on the past.

“You need a purpose in life.” Remy slung the white bar towel across his shoulder and plunked down in the chair across from him. “You’re adrift.”

“I’m waiting.”

“For what?”

Beau shrugged. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

Just then the sound of high heels clicking against concrete and the whiff of honeyed perfume lured Beau’s attention to the doorway.

A tall, striking blonde stalked over the threshold and into the bar with the presence of gale-force winds. He certainly knew the type. Had seen such women every day on the streets of New York City, dominating the sidewalks with their intensely focused determination. Tough. Success oriented. Self-centered. He had watched them and pitied them.

They had no connectedness to anything truly meaningful. Everything about them screamed money and status and image.

She looked to be in her midtwenties, maybe a couple of years younger than his own twenty-nine years, with flawlessly applied makeup. She wore an understated but expensive long-sleeved blue silk dress cut in a classic style favored by discerning business-women who sought to look professional while maintaining a hint of femininity. Tucked under one arm she carried a slim, black leather briefcase and in the other a small blue clutch purse that matched her outfit.

The only thing about her that was the least bit “out there” were her funky shoes. Fashionable azure-and-silver stilettos completely inappropriate for strolling the French Quarter, but just perfect for showing off miles of long, gorgeous calves.

Her features were more compelling than beautiful. She wasn’t fashion-model anorexic, and he admired that about her body. Nice breasts, not too big, not too small, in perfect proportion to rounded hips emphasizing her tapered waist.

Her hair was bobbed in a sleek, chic cut and he could tell she wore wispy bangs in order to camouflage a wide forehead. Her eyes were a little on the small side but he’d always had a thing for women with deep brown eyes that went all squinchy when they smiled. He realized he wanted to see her eyes crinkle and dance.

And he wanted to touch her.

No, wanted was too mild a word for what he was feeling. He ached to touch her. To find out exactly what her skin felt like. How smooth, how soft. Suddenly, his fingers burned raw and needy.

Just looking at her made him think of velvet and midnight and satin sheets and sunrise.

If he kissed her, would she taste like forbidden fantasies and sensual sin?

His entire body responded to his unexpected desire and damn if he didn’t feel the beginnings of a hard-on. It was lust at first sight.

Obviously, it had been too long since he’d gotten laid.

Remy got up from the table, leaving Beau to observe the newcomer from beneath the brim of his baseball cap, and slipped behind the counter. The woman headed straight for the bar as if she knew unequivocally what she wanted.

She definitely was not a tourist. The lady was on a mission.

Beau cocked his head and waited with interest to see what she would order.

A martini? A Manhattan? A cosmopolitan? Certainly not a beer. Never a beer. Not enough prestige in a simple concoction of barley and hops.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” Remy greeted her, purposefully injecting a heavy layer of the charming thick French Cajun accent the tourists adored.

Beau envied his brother’s accent. Between his world travels and Francesca’s insistence he take allocution lessons to eradicate any trace of what she disdainfully called “Louisiana good for nothing drawl,” he could not shake the resulting smooth, neutral, urbane tonality from his voice no matter how hard he tried.

“Good afternoon.” The woman smiled at Remy.

“What you be wantin’, chère?”

“Perrier.” She undid the clasp of her wallet and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. “And some information.”

“Information?” Remy raised a quizzical eyebrow at the same time he twisted the top off the bottle and poured the iced mineral water into a glass. A glugging, fizzy sound filled the silence.

As Beau studied the woman, he realized he might have been a bit too hasty in his initial assessment of her. Underneath the indomitable stride, her squarely set shoulders and those forthright eyes, he sensed a certain vulnerability that all the busy activity and high-powered success could not salve. He saw it in the way she hesitated for just a nanosecond, briefly sinking her top teeth into her bottom lip. Drawing her courage?

Maybe she wasn’t quite as self-confident as she’d first appeared, but she did a pretty impressive job of hiding it.

That sweet, slight hint of contradiction did something strange to him.

Bam! His heart rate kicked up a notch and his mouth went irrationally dry.

Resolutely, she tucked a strand of hair behind one ear, slid her fanny onto the nearest bar stool and hooked the heels of her stilettos behind the wooden rungs. “I’m looking for Beau Thibbedeaux. Would you happen to know where I could find him?”

Uh-oh. So she was looking for him. Not a good sign. The old familiar queasiness every time his past caught up with him winnowed through his stomach.

He traced his gaze over her body again, this time determinedly ignoring her lush curves and searching for clues to her occupation. Too finely dressed to be a private investigator. Not obedient enough to be one of Francesca’s handmaidens. If it weren’t for those sexy shoes he would say she was a lawyer.

She probably was a lawyer in spite of the shoe fetish. Two years later and he was still dodging fallout from the Migosaki deal gone awry. Good grief, would it ever end? Couldn’t they just let a man be?

Well, Remy had gotten his wish. Beau now had something to occupy his mind.

Remy shot a quick glance over at Beau. Want me to rat you out or not?

His preliminary impulse was to shake his head, glide right out the side door and disappear into the crowd. But he knew better. He’d learned the hard way you couldn’t run from your problems.

Plus this particular problem had the upside of being intriguingly attractive.

And it had been a very long time since he’d gotten laid.

But the dark recesses of his brain warned: You know you’re not the kind of guy who can kiss and then sprint.

It was true. He had never been able to treat sex casually the way most men seemed to be able to. Other than Angeline, he’d only had one other sexual partner and she had been his high-school sweetheart.

He blamed his inherent sexual loyalty on his basic need for connection. Having grown up in a fractured home with no real place to call his own, getting yo-yoed from one continent to the other, from one step-family to the next, Beau longed for a steady, stable woman he could make a life with. That’s why he’d had such trouble letting go of his relationship with Angeline long after it was evident their basic values clashed.

But he wasn’t a kid anymore whose mother was too busy pitching hissy fits to pay him the slightest bit of attention. Wasn’t it time he overcame his annoying impulse of equating sex with love?

Not that he was jumping to any conclusions about Miss New York City. But his unexpected sexual desire for her did raise a few issues.

“Beau Thibbedeaux?” the woman repeated to Remy. “I understand he’s part owner of this bar. Where might I find him?”

Beau pushed up the brim of his cap with one finger and settled his chair firmly on the ground. “I’m Beau Thibbedeaux.”

The woman whirled around to face him. Her eyes widened as if seeing him for the first time. “Oh.”

“What do you need?”

She planted an optimistic smile on her face and darn if her eyes didn’t scrunch up in the cute little way he’d imagined. In the blink of a second, she hopped off the bar stool and took two long-legged strides across the floor, her hand extended dominate side up, leaving him with no choice but to get to his feet and accept her proffered palm.

Her skin was warm against his. Her smell—clean, sophisticated, enticing—teased his nostrils and made him itch to nuzzle the nape of her neck.

“How do you do, Mr. Thibbedeaux? I’m Marissa Sturgess.”

Nice name, he thought, but said, “You may call me Beau.”

Silently he tried it out. Marissa. He liked the romantic way her name rolled off his tongue. He imagined whispering it in the dead of darkness and felt his body heat up.

Her smile deepened and simultaneously dug a soft place into the center of his solar plexus. He’d had a lot of practice assessing manipulative smiles and he could have sworn hers was genuine.

“Beau,” she said and the sound of his name on her lips was positively testosterone stoking.

Bizarrely enough, her eyes seemed to burn him. Everywhere her gaze landed, his skin sizzled. His nose, his cheeks…his lips.

Involuntarily, he lifted a hand to his mouth.

Weird.

“I’m a huge fan,” she said.

Fan? Oh no, was she some kind of computer-geek autograph seeker who’d acquired carpal tunnel syndrome from countless hours of playing his most popular video game, Star Tazer?

She indicated his baseball cap with a wave of her hand and he laughed. Oh yeah. The Yankees.

He was still trying to puzzle together who she was and what she was doing here when she said, “I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time.”

Now, that sounded like the prelude to a sales pitch. She was a saleswoman not a lawyer. Yes. That would explain the shoes.

But not his sudden disappointment because he’d misjudged her smile.

“I’m just the silent partner,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Remy. “My brother handles all the purchasing orders.”

“I’m not selling anything.”

He folded his arms over his chest, his hands tucked under his armpits and his feet planted shoulders’ width apart. “No? Isn’t everyone selling something?”

“Can we talk?”

He waved at the chair across the table. She eased into the seat and he plunked down opposite her. Remy hustled over with her Perrier and a fresh beer for Beau.

“Got yourself a live one,” Remy whispered. “Go for it.”

Marissa’s lips curled in amusement. “I appreciate the compliment.”

Remy grinned back, nudged Beau in the shoulder with his elbow, winked and nodded at him.

Beau kicked Remy lightly in the shin. Knock off the matchmaking.

Thankfully, a couple of customers strolled in and claimed Remy’s attention.

“Ignore my brother. He can’t stand it because he’s married and I’m not.”

She dropped her gaze for a fraction of a second and pressed her lips together before raising her head and meeting his eyes once more. There it was again, the hint she didn’t feel quite as competent as she hoped to appear.

“Mr. Thibbedeaux. Beau.” She took a sip of Perrier, and then settled her hands in her lap. “Why don’t I just cut to the chase? I’m an account manager for Pegasus software in Manhattan.”

He said nothing, just watched and waited. He’d heard of Pegasus. It was a small but rapidly expanding company that had built their reputation on cutting-edge technology and a penchant for maverick risk taking.

“Our largest client is Baxter and Jackson.”

“The sex institute?” He purposely put an emphasis on the word sex to see if he could provoke a blush. No such luck. Her professional persona was firmly in place and she wasn’t about to encourage him. But, although her lips didn’t turn up at the corners, her eyes did crinkle and he felt as if he’d been awarded a grand prize.

“Yes. The sex institute.”

“Must make for a titillating work environment,” Beau said, exaggerating the first syllable of titillating. He made sure his voice was low and husky and provocative.

“At times.”

Cotton candy wouldn’t melt in her mouth; her expression was that dry. He wondered what it would take to wet her up from the inside out.

“So what does all this have to do with me?” he ventured, although he had a pretty good idea where the conversation was headed and he was loath for it to roll there. Maybe he was wrong and she would surprise him, he hoped wistfully.

“Baxter and Jackson have commissioned Pegasus to produce a virtual-reality video game for them.”

“A touchy-feely video sex romp? I thought Baxter and Jackson were strictly clinical.”

“It’s an interactive, instructional type game designed to assist couples who have trouble letting themselves go during intimacy.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. Baxter and Jackson have done considerable research that shows a sense of whimsy is a key ingredient in happy relationships. Apparently a lot of their patients don’t know how to instigate their own bedroom fun. Hence the idea for a video game.”

“You don’t say.”

She kept her voice just above a whisper and leaned in closer. “Just between you and me and the fence post, I think it’s a preposterous notion, but they are the clients.”

“What’s so preposterous about it?”

“You shouldn’t have to play a game to get closer to your significant other.”

“Personally, I’ve always been a big fan of whimsy in the bedroom. I like toys and games and role-playing. How about you?”

He was being wicked and he knew it, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. He had the strangest urge to ruffle her feathers. Maybe it was because she’d ruffled his without even trying and he could not stop thinking about undressing her and discovering exactly what delicious treats lay beyond her composed exterior.

Now here it was at last. The pink flush staining her cheeks. He suppressed a triumphant grin.

She straightened, pulling away from him. “I suppose your sublime appreciation of wacky boudoir antics is why they asked me to contact you about designing the game for them.”

“Boudoir antics?” He laughed and wriggled his eyebrows.

“It’s an expression.”

“Yeah, if you’re seventy-five.”

“What would you have me say? Love-shack frolics?” She narrowed her eyes and her nostrils flared. “The mattress tango? The sleeping-bag slide? Tube-steak boogie?”

“I was thinking something a little more down and dirty.”

Wooo, he’d pushed her hot button and she was fun to tease. He murmured a phrase that would have spurred his Italian grandmother to scrub his mouth out with Ivory.

She glared in irritation. “Get over yourself.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have to make a joke of everything?”

He shrugged. “Sorry. It’s my nature. Survival mechanism.”

She drummed her fingernails on the table. “Can we return to the topic at hand?”

“If you insist. I’d much rather bug you about sex. It’s so easy to make you squirm.”

Ignoring that last comment, she said, “We’re prepared to offer you significant compensation if you sign on to the project”

Beau shook his head. He had to admit, the idea of creating a virtual-reality sex video game was intriguing, especially if he would be working closely with Marissa, who, it seemed, could morph into something of a spitfire when she got charged up. And once upon a time he would have found the Baxter and Jackson concept quite challenging. But not anymore.

“I’m sorry you wasted your time coming down here, Ms. Sturgess, but I’m retired.”

“People come out of retirement all the time.”

“Not me.”

“Perhaps if you slept on it.” She reached up a hand and fingered her beaded necklace.

“Really, I’m not interested.”

She fished a pen from her briefcase, jotted down a number on a cocktail napkin and passed it across the table. “Would this help persuade you?”

“Money isn’t going to win me over.” He pushed the napkin back toward her without even glancing at it.

“What will it take then?”

“That chapter of my life is over.”

“Why?” she challenged.

“What do you mean why?”

“You’re a young man. You were once one of the best software designers in the world. Why would you walk away from it?”

She met his stare and Beau realized she honestly couldn’t fathom why he had left both his career and New York City behind. Even though he expected it from her, he felt oddly disappointed. She asked the same damn questions Angeline had asked. He couldn’t explain it to her, just as he’d been unable to explain it to Angeline. He knew she simply wouldn’t understand. Not a success-oriented, achievement-driven woman like her.

“I’m sure there are plenty of designers in Manhattan that would leap at the chance to create this game for you, Ms. Sturgess.”

“Marissa,” she said and laid her hand over his.

The physical contact weakened his knees, tightened his stomach and made him glad he wasn’t standing. She was pulling out the womanly wiles now and God help him, he was susceptible.

“No can do, Marissa.” Best to send her on her way posthaste before he got himself into serious trouble.

“Everyone has their price, Beau,” she wheedled. “Come on. Tell me. What’s yours?”

That approach was not going to work with him. He found it mildly insulting that she wouldn’t accept no for an answer, even at the same time he admired her buoyant tenacity.

“You can’t afford me.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me on this, you wouldn’t be willing to pay my price.”

“How do you know unless you tell me what it is?” she insisted.

“And risk getting my face slapped?” He chuckled. “Not hardly.”

She ground her teeth. “Don’t tease.”

“Who’s teasing?”

He held her gaze. He wasn’t even sure what he was proposing, or even if he was proposing anything, but the jump of sexual electricity between them was undeniable. Why let the opportunity slip through his fingers? Especially when it was past time he learned how to enjoy good sex for its own sake and not as a prelude to commitment.

She sucked in her breath. “Listen, this project would help lots of sexually dysfunctional people improve their lives. Don’t you want to help people?”

“Not particularly.”

Her forehead wrinkled in shocked surprise. “What happened to you?”

“Life.”

She launched in again, arguing in circles, gesturing with her arms, talking faster and faster until he feared she was going to burn up all the oxygen in the room. Like a swivel-hipped running back, she was relying on her verbal speed and agility and commitment to her position to influence him.

Poor woman.

She had no idea she had selected exactly the wrong track with him. If she had only stuck with the sexual banter he might have been persuaded. But when those around him got excited and tried to force him into going along with them, Beau stubbornly dug into his position. He shook his head.

She kept talking, working first one angle and then another. The woman would have made a terrific filibuster or a kick-ass auctioneer.

“No,” he said calmly, dispassionately, when she stopped to take a breath.

Their gazes clashed. Her brown eyes flashed a challenge as clearly as if she’d drawn an épée from its sheath, readied her stance for a lunging round of thrust and parry and uttered “En garde.”

“Perhaps I wasn’t making myself clear enough. If you were to…”

“I said no.”

“I don’t take no for an answer.”

“Guess you’re going to have to this time, because I’m not changing my mind.”

“I don’t believe this. Offer a man a huge amount of money to do something he loves, something he’s the best at and he turns you down. Who does that?”

“I do.”

“You’re impossible.” In disgust, Marissa threw her arms into the air and the back of her rapidly moving hand struck his beer bottle.

Like a ten pin smacked by a twenty-pound bowling ball, the bottle rocketed against the wall and shattered, bathing them both in beer.

The brittle sound of unintentional violence snapped off the high ceiling like whiplash. Every patron in the place turned to rubberneck, and for the first time Beau noticed the bar was more than half-full and Leroy was no longer sitting at the back table.

“Oh, oh,” Marissa sputtered, her eyes widening at what her strong-chinned zeal had wrought.

“Wow,” Beau drawled then lazily licked beer foam from his lips. His words were light, but his chiding expression was not. “Impressive display of pique.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized and took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean to lose control.”

“If you were trying to intimidate me, it’s not going to work.”

“I didn’t break the bottle on purpose.” Beer dripped from her bangs and she looked incongruously, impossibly cute. Sort of like a Tasmanian devil dressed up in fancy clothes.

“Maybe not consciously, but you were frustrated,” he pointed out.

“What are you accusing me of?” she demanded.

Remy rushed to the rescue with two towels and a broom. He handed them each a towel, then started sweeping up the glass.

“So,” Remy mused aloud as Beau and Marissa, still locked in a stare, wiped themselves off. “This is what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object.”




3


MARISSA HADN’T EXPECTED the guy to be so good-looking. Or so damn stubborn.

Dash warned you.

To hell with Dash. She wasn’t about to let his doom-and-gloom predictions affect her. She was a professional. The best. She didn’t give up easily. She had guaranteed Judd and Francine that she could deliver Beau Thibbedeaux and by hook or by crook she was determined to achieve her goal.

After knocking over Beau’s beer bottle, she’d left the bar in a fluster, disturbed by her body’s intense reaction to the man and unnerved by the fact she had lost her temper. She needed some distance and time to regroup before mentally wrestling with him again.

She just had to find out what made the guy tick. Obviously, it wasn’t money. This afternoon she had made a monster mistake in trying, by sheer will of her personality, to convince him to take the job. What she needed was a more subtle approach.

What she needed was an angle.

Ashamed that she hadn’t done more extensive research on Beau before showing up in New Orleans, Marissa crawled into bed in her jammies, whipped open her laptop and plugged it into the phone jack behind the nightstand in her hotel room.

Tackling the task with zeal, she logged on to the Internet. She did a Google search, keyboarding in the name Beau Thibbedeaux, and was rewarded when a string of references popped up. She read each entry with interest, searching for his history, his weaknesses, his appetites, anything and everything that might lend her an edge in dealing with the guy.

What she discovered dampened her enthusiasm. He was an eccentric computer genius. He was rich beyond her wildest imaginings. That explained his cavalier attitude toward money. He seemed to enjoy hiding out from the world, preferring to spend his time with a small but close-knit circle of family and friends.

Beau was a homebody and homebodies were harder to motivate. Absentmindedly, she toyed with a paper clip fished from her briefcase and pondered the situation.

Think. You can do this. You must do this, her internal taskmaster, who was the emotional equivalent of a chain-gang guard on Benzedrine, insisted. Everyone’s depending on you to sign him.

Well, except for Dash, he was counting on her to fail. She suppressed the fear wading around uncomfortably inside her stomach. She had a lot riding on this outcome. She could not afford to stumble. At the image of Dash’s smugness over her failure, fresh determination rose within her.

Albeit determination mingled with a tinge of guilt. Some people might say she was pushing too hard. If Beau wasn’t interested she should simply accept the fact and move on. But Marissa wasn’t a quitter, never had been, never would be. She wanted the account directorship, and by gum, she intended to do everything within her power to get it.

Fisting her hand around the paper clip, she closed her eyes and replayed the mental tape of her disastrous first encounter with Beau.

In her mind’s eyes she could see him, cocked back on the legs of that chair, a slow, mischievous I’m-up-to-no-good grin lighting up his lips the minute she’d marched into the bar. He exuded a sultry masculinity that called to her.

And turned her on.

Sighing, she opened her eyes and restlessly linked a second paper clip to the first.

They’d shared an instant connection. An ephemeral, nonspecific sort of “hey there” feeling one didn’t run across every day. She’d certainly never felt anything quite like it, and their unexpected bond still held the power to affect her, even several hours later.

She chained a third paper clip to the first two, then another and another.

Not to mention he was handsome as sin and possessed a muscular body that bespoke hours in the gym. She ran her tongue over her lips just thinking about his full biceps. She admired a man who was dedicated to health and fitness. Then again, what else did the guy have to do but stay in shape?

It wasn’t just his body that attracted her. The soulful expression in his eyes called to her, as well. The aura of loneliness clinging to him made her want to cuddle him.

Yes, there had been a spark.

But then she’d gone and spoiled it all by moving too soon and speaking too fast. Now the damage had been done and repairing her mistake was going to be a lot harder than making a good first impression would have been. Why hadn’t she been more attuned to the nuances rippling between them?

Why? Because the man rattled her.

To the bone.

And she didn’t like being rattled.

Something about the manner in which he’d studied her, as if he knew exactly what she looked like naked, panicked her in a way she couldn’t explain.

Even now, recalling how his silver-gray eyes had leisurely tacked their way up and down her body caused Marissa to shiver involuntarily.

Why was she even thinking like this? Steve had just broken up with her. The last thing she wanted was to get involved with a potential coworker, especially since it would greatly complicate things.

Maybe her botched relationship with Steve was the reason why. Steve wasn’t the first lover to walk on her because she was too single-minded. Marissa hated to fail at anything and in most areas of her life, she was very successful, but when it came to romance, she didn’t seem to have what it took to make relationships last beyond a few months.

All the more reason to stop fantasizing about Thibbedeaux.

But what a smile he had! Slow and seductive and charming.

Snap out of it, Marissa Jane. Keep your head in the game.

Their personal styles were diametrically opposed. Where she was proactive, he was reactive. She was industrious and precise and energetic. Beau was laid-back and easygoing and languid.

Or at least he had been until she’d pressured him. Clearly, coercion did not work with this dude.

So what did?

She reviewed their conversation again, searching for places when things had gone well.

During their first exchange of smiles and handshakes, she had definitely gotten receptive vibes from him. But once they started talking, everything had gone downhill from there.

Except, Marissa recalled, he’d enjoyed teasing her about sex. Not that she’d been thrilled with his innuendo. She’d felt as if he’d been making fun of her.

Then again, maybe she was too sensitive. After Steve ditching her and Francine’s lecture on the importance of whimsy, maybe Beau’s insinuation that she didn’t know how to have fun had simply struck a raw nerve.

Was there some way she could turn his fondness for fun to her advantage?

Marissa looked down and realized she’d unknowingly created a paper clip necklace, and in that silly bit of office-supply jewelry, she came full circle.

She smacked herself on the forehead with the palm of her hand.

Duh! Of course! That’s what she needed.

A link, a chain, a connection.

Why hadn’t she recognized it before? He was a Southern man and Southern men generally cared deeply about home and family. They liked to be charmed and cajoled and coaxed. If there was one sure way to win him over to her way of thinking, adopting his idealized view on life stood the best chance of winning out.

It might not be perfectly honest and aboveboard to tap into his basic human needs in order to snare him, but capitalizing on physical attraction certainly wasn’t immoral or illegal or even unethical. It was simply a man/woman thing.

Use what you’ve got. Show a little cleavage, act contrite about what happened at the bar, smile a lot, slant him coy glances from the corner of your eye. Take things slow.

It wasn’t the way she normally did business, but mirroring his needs by indulging in flirtation was harmless enough.

Yep. Take advantage of the sexual chemistry. That was the ticket.

Bet you a thousand dollars you can’t win the guy over without sleeping with him. Dash’s taunt rang in her head.

Well, Dash was wrong. She could and she would persuade Thibbedeaux without stepping over the line. Yes, she might use her womanly wiles to convince him, but she wouldn’t go any further than flirtation.

Act available, be unattainable.

Marissa smiled and began to hum a song about industrious ants knocking over rubber-tree plants. She knew exactly what she was going to do next.



BEAU SAT in a rocking chair on the back porch of Greenbrier Plantation and gazed out at the riverboat cruising down the Mississippi. Anna, the family’s seven-year-old golden retriever, lay at his side. After he had made his first million designing video games, he’d bought back the Thibbedeaux ancestral home that his father had been forced to sell in order to pay for his numerous custody battles with Francesca.

Reestablishing old connections. Restoring his links to the past. Making up for what he had missed out on all those years.

He’d refurbished the small but stately manor into a B and B and then turned it over to his half sister, Jenny, to run. She’d done a damn fine job of it and now the place was usually booked solid year round. Except for the attic room Jenny always kept available for Beau’s unexpected appearances.

The early-January wind was brisk but not uncomfortable and it tousled a lock of hair over his forehead. He’d left New Orleans yesterday evening after his odd encounter with Marissa Sturgess and made the twenty-mile journey northwest of the city in an attempt to get the vexing woman off his mind.

The powerful sexual attraction he felt for her spooked him. Beau wasn’t accustomed to such rampant physical desires, especially toward a woman who provoked all his worst qualities.

He was damn glad she’d given up and gone on back to New York after the beer-bottle incident. If she had kept pestering him, he didn’t know if he would have had the courage to resist her. He was that damn attracted. And the last thing he needed was to get involved with a woman who charged through life stuck in high gear.

Been there, tried that.

Marissa never took the time to smell the daisies or stroll through the grass barefoot and feel the dew between her toes. She never just sat on the porch and watched the river roll by. Even if she went to a trendy spa and paid people to rub the physical kinks from her body, she never mentally let go for a moment.

He knew this about her because he used to run the same fast-track lifestyle she was racing and it had almost killed him. Beau knew what she needed, even if Marissa did not. She needed to find the joy in just being alive. She needed to lie on her back on a blanket and look up at the stars. She needed to roller-skate and roast marshmallows around a campfire and catch lightning bugs in a jar.

She needed to let go of her high ideals and lofty expectations. She needed to value herself first and foremost as a human being and not solely for what she could produce. She needed for someone to strap her to a rocking chair and make her sit there until she really saw what was going on around her.

Or maybe she needed someone to tie her to the bed and give her the most mind-altering orgasms of her life.

Beau grinned at the provocative image.

Thank heavens she’d left Louisiana or he just might have volunteered. This sex-simply-for-the-sake-of-good-sex idea would not be such a hard concept to master if it involved someone as enticing but inaccessible as Marissa.

He also hated that he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her job offer. Already his creativity—which had pretty much gone underground after he’d left New York—roared back to life with a startling vengeance. Consumed by a tumble of ideas for the video game, he’d barely slept last night.

“I’m not doing it,” he muttered. “I’m not going back. I can’t go back.”

The thought of returning to the high-pressure world that drained every ounce of fun from him caused Beau to shudder. He might currently be directionless, but it was a damn sight better than feeling as if your life had been stolen and your very soul sucked dry.

Still, tempted a part of him, it might be a kick to try your hand at designing a sexual video game.

His grin widened at the idea of playing that very game with Marissa and goose bumps actually broke out on his forearm. He blamed the cool breeze but he knew he was fooling himself. Marissa was what had him feeling tense and restless, not the chilly air.

“Forget that woman. She’s nothing but trouble.”

Ignoring his direct order, his psyche delivered up a mental picture of her. Intelligent brown eyes, determined chin, forceful carriage, firm caboose and her take-no-prisoners strut.

He got excited all over again.

“Easy, bucko, she’s a man-eater.”

Anna lifted her head, whined and gazed at Beau expectantly.

“No, not you. Go back to your nap.”

The dog thumped her tail but made no move to get up. He reached down and stroked her golden head that uncannily enough was almost the same color as Marissa’s hair. How come women couldn’t be as loyal and uncomplicated as man’s best friend?

Yes, considering the way he was dwelling on her it was a very good thing she’d left town.

He heard tires crunch on the graveled driveway in front of the house and he glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty. A little early for guests to be checking in, but the Scarlett O’Hara Room was vacant.

The sound of a car door opening punctuated the quiet followed by the aggressive strains of a hip-hop beat. He furrowed his forehead in surprise. Most of Greenbrier’s guests consisted of older couples seeking to avoid the hustle and bustle of New Orleans or history buffs looking to revisit the past. Neither of whom seemed the type to listen to Snoop Doggy Dog.

To each his own. Beau shrugged it off. He’d go help with the luggage.

Anna sprang up the minute he got to his feet, wagging her tail and ready for action. He bent down to retrieve her Frisbee and tossed it out across the lawn before turning and heading around the side of the house.

Snoop Dogg snapped off in midsentence and the car door slammed shut.

Leisurely Beau sauntered around the corner, Anna at his side with her slobbery Frisbee in tow. He saw a fire-engine-red Thunderbird convertible parked beside one of the ancient magnolias lining the driveway.

Flashy wheels, he thought, and wondered just who was driving the car, but the trunk was up, blocking his view of the occupant.

Maybe it was one of Jenny’s friends.

Ambling closer, he could make out a woman’s shapely backside protruding from the trunk. Beau squinted against the sunlight and discovered she wore a tushy-hugging black miniskirt and four-inch high heels. Peculiar travel outfit.

His curiosity was definitely aroused.

She pulled a suitcase from the trunk, set in on the ground, then straightened and gazed toward the veranda. The direct sunlight slanted through the magnolia leaves, bathing in her silhouette. She turned her head and he caught a glimpse of her exquisite profile.

Something about her looked very familiar.

A sense of wariness stopped him in his tracks. She hadn’t spotted him. Shouldering her luggage, she turned and stalked toward the house.

It wasn’t! It couldn’t be.

But it was.

His heart dropped into his stomach.

There, looking for all the world like General Patton storming his enemies’ stronghold marched Marissa Sturgess, stilettos and all.



“WHAT IN THE HELL are you doing here?”

“My goodness, where’s your famous southern hospitality?” Marissa put on a calm, cool facade but inside, her knees were quaking and her heart was doing the cha-cha-cha.

Beau Thibbedeaux had scooted up the path in front of her and he was now blocking her way, his hands fisted on his narrow hips. He didn’t appear any too happy to see her. In fact, he looked really mad.

“What are you doing here?” Beau repeated with a growl.

“Why, I’ve taken a room for the night. The Scarlett O’Hara, I believe it’s called.” She forced a lighthearted tone into her voice.

“I thought you went back to New York.”

“I don’t know where you got that idea. I never said I was leaving.”

“I told you no.”

“Can’t a girl take a vacation?”

“Not at my sister’s B and B.”

“Why not? The local guidebook gave it an excellent rating.”

“How did you know I was here?” He glared.

Time to drop the pretense. He wasn’t going to play the game.

“I went by your house in New Orleans and your housekeeper told me where to find you,” Marissa admitted.

“So you just thought you’d come right up here and be a thorn in my side.”

Charm him.

She smiled. “Something like that.”

“Well, you can just forget about it.”

“Now, now. I came here to beg your forgiveness. My behavior yesterday was inexcusable.”

“You’re going to stand there and try to tell me you didn’t come here to coax me into taking on your design project?” he accused.

“Hello,” called out a pretty young woman from the wide front porch. “You must be Marissa Sturgess.”

Marissa peered around Beau’s shoulder and wriggled her fingers. “Hi, yes I am and you must be Jenny.”

“Uh-huh, and this is my rude brother who’s letting you cart your own suitcase. Beau,” Jenny chided him, “please take Ms. Sturgess’s things to her room.”

Marissa dropped her suitcase at Beau’s feet and blithely walked around him.

She extended her hand to the auburn-haired, freckle-face woman with a winning smile who came down the steps to greet her. Jenny was dressed casually in blue-jeans overalls, a white long-sleeved turtleneck sweater and blue-and-white Keds. She had the kind of friendly, open face that made you want to tell her everything about yourself all at once.

“I would like it if you called me Marissa.”

“Of course, Marissa, welcome to Greenbrier.” Jenny linked her arm through Marissa’s. “Let me show you the house.”

They went on ahead, leaving Beau to bring up the rear with her suitcase.

Jenny began to tell Marissa about the house and its history, and while she was very interested, she couldn’t get her mind off the fact Beau was glaring at her so hard her neck was perspiring.

This wasn’t working out quite as she had planned. It was a little hard to flirt with a man who acted as if her face was on the wanted poster at the post office. She had no idea she had upset him to this degree the day before. So much for charm. Apparently he wasn’t one to easily forgive and forget.

Jenny guided her up the sweeping staircase and past a hallway chock-full of antique rocking chairs. “My mother is a rocking-chair connoisseur,” she explained. “We even hold a rock-off every summer.”

“A rock-off?”

“The annual rocking-chair finals. Last year one of the contestants made it into the Guinness Book of World Records for most consecutive hours spent rocking.”

It sounded like a fate worse than death and Marissa found all those rockers lined up a little spooky-looking. They put her in mind of mobile coffins. But she was concentrating hard on adopting the Southern lifestyle long enough to win Beau over.

“You’ve got some beautiful pieces here,” she commented, the scent of Beau’s sweet basil–scented cologne toying with her nostrils. To distract herself from his disconcerting aroma, she stroked the arm of a nearby rocker. It glided smoothly like satin, without a single creak or groan.

How someone under the age of eighty could sit here and rock for hours on end was beyond her. Guinness Book of World Records champion or not.

“Are you a collector?” Jenny asked.

“No, not really,” Marissa admitted.

“Oh. I thought you might be in town for the antiques auction at the Conroy estate.”

“She’s here,” Beau muttered darkly, “to drive me crazy.”

Jenny turned and looked at Beau. “Do you two know each other?”

“We met yesterday,” Marissa explained.

“She showed up at the bar trying to get me to go back to Manhattan and design sex video games for her.”

“No kidding?” Jenny looked surprised.

“It’s not like that.” Marissa glared at Beau. The way he said it made her sound like a pervert. “The videos are for Baxter and Jackson. You know, to help the clinic’s patients overcome sexual dysfunction. It’s completely tasteful.”

“Cool.” Jenny grinned.

“You like the idea?” Beau blinked at his sister.

“I think it’s a great idea.”

“Good grief.”

“I can see how designing a sex video game might drive you crazy,” Jenny teased. “Seeing as how you haven’t been with a—”

“Hush!” Beau commanded and Jenny shut up.

But not before Marissa caught the gist of what the younger woman was saying. Apparently it had been quite a while since Mr. Thibbedeaux had enjoyed sex with a partner.

Marissa grinned.

“I think you should do it,” Jenny said to Beau.

“You think I should go back to Manhattan?” Beau frowned.

“Oh, not that part.” Jenny waved a hand. “You were miserable in New York. But couldn’t you just design the game from here?”

Marissa snapped her fingers. “Of course he could. You’re a genius.”

The concept had never occurred to her. The level of effort would be easier to keep tabs on him in Manhattan, of course, because that’s where the programmers were, but if a long-distance arrangement was the only way she could get him to sign on, then why not? She had already negotiated her travel expenses into the contract, so shuttling back and forth shouldn’t bother Judd.

“Beau really needs something to do,” Jenny said. “He loves designing video games but he’s got this thing against competition. Totally weird.” She rolled her eyes.

“Back off, the both of you,” Beau snapped. “You’re discussing this as if it’s not my decision to make.”

He stalked past them, opened the door to one of the bedrooms and deposited Marissa’s luggage on the floor. Then without another word, he turned and disappeared down the stairs.

Marissa blew out her breath. “That went down like rock salt.”

“Oh, he’s just blowing off steam. He does it when he’s feeling cornered, but if you really want to know, I can tell you how to handle him.”

“Spill!” Marissa grabbed Jenny’s arm.

“Boy, you are eager to make this happen.” Jenny chuckled.

“The promotion I’ve wanted for three years hinges on me signing him.”

“Well, I have to warn you, it takes him a long time to make a decision. Be patient.”

“Gotcha.”

“He rebels under pressure, nagging or complaining. Goes back to life with his mother.”

“You two don’t have the same mother?”

“We’re half siblings. Francesca is a terror. She’s a diva to end all divas.” Jenny shook her head. “I barely knew Beau until he was old enough to get away from her. But that’s a long-drawn-out story. What you need are the Cliff Notes.”

Marissa nodded.

“Do you really want to know the best way to get him to agree to develop the game for you?” Jenny enticed.

“Oh, absolutely.” She would do almost anything to make this deal happen, even if it meant donning kid gloves and an asbestos suit in order to handle Beau Thibbedeaux.

Jenny grinned. “Then play with him.”




4


WITH ANNA TROTTING at his heels, Beau sauntered toward the two-story detached garage, whistling under his breath, determined to ignore the walnut of agitation lodged low in his belly. That’s what fast-paced people excelled at—disturbing the rest of the world with their high-pressure hurry, hurry, hurry, go, go, go tactics, twisting everyone else into knots.

Well, he wasn’t going to let her get away with it. So, Marissa had shown up here unexpectedly. He was calm. He was cool. He was unruffled. He would think of a creative, easygoing way to get rid of her.

The tortoise eventually bests the hare.

Grinning at the naughty idea brewing in his brain, he opened the garage door and flicked on the overhead fluorescent lights. He squeezed past Jenny’s little red Honda Civic, parked too close to the lawn tractor and the other gardening equipment, and made a beeline for the staircase.

Upstairs in the loft he found what he was looking for. The boyhood treasures his father had bought for him and Francesca would never let him keep at her house.

While Anna sniffed around searching for hidden treasures, Beau dug through his past, unearthing an electric train set his dad had mounted on plywood. He found a pogo stick. Stilts. A skateboard. Two bikes. A football gone flat. A seasoned baseball glove. Model airplanes. Plastic army soldiers. A box of broken crayons. Board games—Monopoly, Clue, Life, Backgammon, Twister.

In one corner hunkered his drum set. As a kid, whenever he felt perturbed with his life, he would sneak up here to bash away his demons. He sank down on the stool behind the drums and blew a layer of dust off the cymbals. He reached for the drum-sticks. The grip had eroded to a smooth groove from years of practice. He drummed a couple of riffs and Anna took off.

Bang, crash, bang.

A familiar serenity stole over him and he felt the tension drain from his shoulders. And as he played, he plotted.

Hmm, what would drive an express-lane kind of woman like Marissa around the bend and over the edge of her emotional cliff?

Anything slow or plodding.

Anything she might deem trivial or frivolous.





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