“Chelsea.”
“Mr. St. Sebastian.”
Freezing him out with formality while standing on a tropical beach, wearing a bikini. How could he not take that challenge? A verbal duel with Chelsea had the potential to become his favorite form of foreplay, and as much as she wanted to pretend otherwise, he knew after last night the battle of wits worked for her, too. “You know, a lot of people use my first name. Friends. Business associates.” He took a step closer. “Lovers. You fall into all three categories. Don’t you think it’s time you called me Rafe?”
“I fall into one out of three categories,” she shot back. Despite her stubborn insistence on using his formal name, she apparently lost her own battle with propriety. Her stare moved over him, and turned hot enough to singe through his white linen button-down and jeans, before slowly returning to his face.
He placed his hand over his heart. “We’re not friends?”
“No. And we’re also not lovers. One mistake doesn’t count.”
“Our kiss last night spoke volumes about what counts.”
Her cheeks turned as pink as the sunset. “There was no ‘our kiss.’ You kissed me. I simply refrained from making a scene.”
When he opened his mouth to point out she’d wound herself around him like ivy and kissed him back like there was no tomorrow, she shook her head and started drying off. “But that’s neither here nor there. Why are you here, now…and how did you find me? Best I recall, I didn’t tell my mom my plans for this evening.”
Jab, retreat, and jab again. She made it impossible to resist sparring with her. “I spoke with Lynette. She told me where to look.” He offered her an innocent smile, even though every swipe of her towel forced him to imagine running his tongue over her skin. “And here you are.”
“Here I am.” She continued drying off. “Did you need something?”
“The Templetons asked me to treat their new deal liaison to dinner tonight.” It happened to be true, although he’d have searched her out even if they hadn’t.
“That’s sweet, but totally unnecessary,” she insisted, running the towel across her stomach, and then down her long, slim legs. In his mind, his mouth followed.
“It’s company policy.”
She paused, mid-swipe, and looked at him. “Are you serious?”
“Of course not.”
The honesty got a laugh out of her, but she shook her head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
He would change her mind—he hadn’t gotten this far abiding by good ideas—but he could find a business justification, if that’s what she needed. “St. Sebastian Enterprises just anteed up a significant sum of money to purchase Tradewinds, based on certain information and assumptions. I’m flying out early tomorrow, but when I return next week to get a more detailed view of the operation I want to hit the ground running. I’d appreciate if you’d join me for dinner, and give me some initial information about the resort, so we don’t have to waste precious time covering preliminaries next week.”
“So this would be strictly a working dinner, then?”
He wasn’t ruling out other possibilities, but he figured he’d made that clear last night. Besides, something told him answering her naive question with, “Depends on your definition of strict,” would result in a solo dinner. Instead, he said, “Nothing too grueling.”
She gave him a long, silent stare, and then stuffed the towel into her bag and pulled a cover-up over her head. It had long, loose sleeves, a slit neckline, and ended mid-thigh. He couldn’t really explain why he found the simple garment so sexy on her, but he did.
She stepped into beach sandals and looked down at herself. “As long as you’re content to dine somewhere casual. I’m not dressed for any of the resorts’ restaurants.”
“I know just the place.” He took the handles of her beach bag in one hand, and caught hers in the other. She didn’t draw away, so either she didn’t sense the irritatingly persistent need burning just below his veneer of civility, or somewhere beneath her own veneer lurked a woman who wanted to play with fire. Together they walked up the nearly deserted beach while the last streaks of sunset sank into the liquid blue of the Pacific. The soft orange light faded as they entered the tunnel of tropical plants and flowers surrounding the path to the resort.
Tradewinds’ beach access could serve as a set for the Garden of Eden. Quiet. Shaded. Ripe with the temptation to sin. Maybe Chelsea felt the temptation, too, because when they reached the end of the secluded passage, her shoulders finally relaxed.
Those shoulders tensed again when he led her through the lobby, toward the elevators. She dug in her heels and tried to take her hand back. “I thought we were having dinner.”
Rafe maintained his hold. Guests passed. When they moved beyond earshot, he said, “We are. I’ll order room service in my suite.”
This time she pulled her hand free and took a step back. “I can’t just”—she looked around to make sure they had no audience—“go to your suite. It’s not professional.”
He simply nudged her into the elevator, swiped his key card in the reader and punched the button for the top floor. The doors closed. “I completely disagree. My suite is a perfectly respectable location to have dinner. There’s a sitting room, and a dining area. I’m not suggesting we picnic on the bed.”
“It’s too private.”
“Privacy is essential. We’re going to discuss confidential topics like St. Sebastian’s goals with respect to the Tradewinds acquisition. Not the type of information I can afford a competitor to overhear from the other side of a booth at Roy’s.”