Why would a massage session in a Fiji holiday resort make Tanya the Ice Queen so sex-starved that she would actually consider paying for sex?
It can't be her project of researching Internet dating sites! Those losers wouldn't be able to turn on a woman even if she came complete with an ON switch.
It can't be the delicious island cocktails of tropical fruit, cream and vodka... even if their names (like Sex On The Beach and Hot Screaming Orgasm) make you blush when you order them.
What is making Tanya lose her focus? Could it be the tight black jeans on the tight black arse of Randy Andy, the alleged con artist?
The moment Tanya Redford spotted the caramel-skinned hunk in the hotel foyer she knew two things: that the guy was a con artist and that she was in troube–big time.
The con was in the sincere angle of his shoulders and in the forthright gaze. The con was in his smile, vulnerable with honesty. The con was in his bad boy charm.
The mixture meant trouble of mega proportions.
Tanya didn’t mean to listen in on the conversation...All right, she did. The hunk’s voice was like Kahlua and it slid delectably over her, caressing her skin and tingling her spine.
"I’m afraid I’m not much of a poker player, Mr. Lockhorne," he leaned his body in toward an elderly couple and spread out his arms. "You’d hate me for spoiling your evening."
While Tanya did not believe the "not much of a poker player" part, she agreed with the rest of the statement. It would be easy to hate this guy once he’d cheated you at the poker table. She already hated him for the way her nipples tensed up at the sight of his predator-like mouth and for the way her hands ached to stroke his tight jeans.
"Nonsense," the elderly gentleman’s voice boomed across the hall. "We don’t take the game seriously. But evenings are so boring in this place—there is only so much Fijian dancing an old grump like me can watch in a week."
"Surely, with a delightful wife like yours—" The conman’s eyes blazed brazen as he lifted Mrs. Lockhorne’s wrinkled hand to his mouth.
He held it there for about one hundred years, while Tanya looked on, transfixed. The air around her thickened, she gulped its heat in short shallow breaths. She would give all her days in this five-star beach resort in exchange for one night with that mouth.
"Oh, go on, Andy," the other woman laughed and tilted her head, her hand still captive on his lips. "Coming from anybody else, that comment would have sounded sleazy."
"Ma’am, I can assure you…" His cheeky grin belied the words.
Andy. The owner of the best jean-clad arse she has seen in years—make that "ever"—was called Andy. His name sent a prickling awareness up and down her spine.
Randy Andy. Andy-Candy. Neat.