Bad Behaviour. Kristin Hardy

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      “Give it a rest, Eric.” Even Dom could hear the edge in his voice. “Why are you busting on me about this?”

      “Maybe it’s enlightened self-interest. You were a lot more fun in the old days.” The joking look disappeared for a moment. “And maybe because I’m your friend and I don’t like what I’m seeing. You’ve been doing this nose-to-the-grind-stone thing for five years now, ever since—”

      “Got it,” Dom interrupted. “You don’t need to remind me.”

      Eric hesitated. “You’re fried, my man, and I don’t mean sunburned. Time for a break. You’ve got competent people on staff and if they can’t handle things, they know where to find you. So do us all a favor, including yourself—for the rest of the week, kick back and have a good time. Tonight, you’re not a minitycoon in training, you’re not the next Wall Street phenom. You’re just a guy who runs a garage.”

      “Oh, great. That’ll turn women on.”

      “You kidding me? I bet there are a dozen grease monkeys between here and Cancun who are going to get lucky tonight. And at least one uptight millionaire-to-be who’s not, unless he lightens up a little.”

      The night air was humid, but the breeze coming off the water was fresh enough to keep it from being oppressive. It had been a while since he’d been with a woman, felt soft, warm skin, driven himself into her heat. Maybe Eric was right. Maybe a quick, no-strings hookup with the right woman would be the way to forget his responsibilities for a night.

      The problem was, thinking about the business had become a habit.

      “Look around,” Eric invited. “This bar is packed with gorgeous women. Smile at one of them for a change. Shoot, I’ll even let you have first pick to show you what a generous guy I am. What about that redhead over there? Or the blonde? Or—oh, honey.”

      At the change in Eric’s voice, Dom’s glance flicked over to see what occupied his friend’s gaze.

      And found himself dumbstruck.

      She was slender and blond, her hair cut short like some kind of little wood sprite, strands of silver and gold scattering over her forehead. She was dressed like a wood sprite, too, in a short, flippy dress of green that showed a lot of long, sleek leg. Something in the curve of her mouth suggested mischief, something in her eyes sparkled with devilry. She’d walked in with a half dozen other women, but she was the one he’d fixed on.

      “That one with the long dark hair, she’s a model, I know it,” Eric said feverishly.

      “I doubt it.” But Dom didn’t even bother to look.

      “No, for real. I saw her in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition about eight, ten years ago. Look at that face, and, buddy, you wouldn’t believe her body.”

      “Uh-huh,” Dom said, unable to take his eyes off the blonde. It was as though more light gathered around her than around anyone else in the bar. She walked—no, sashayed—into the room with an exuberance that made him wonder if she carried it over into everything she did.

      Including making love.

      When she leaned over to whisper something to one of her girlfriends, he could hear the husky murmur in his own ear, feel the warmth of her breath. He looked at her mouth and he knew what she would taste like, how soft her lips would be. She might have appeared as a pixie but she’d feel all woman in his arms. She’d press up against him and her breath would catch when he touched her just so.

      And if he didn’t know how she’d look naked, his imagination was already efficiently painting the picture for him.

      With a click of drumsticks, the band launched into a fast salsa number. The blonde swung her hips a bit, moving to the music. A night, Dom thought feverishly. An hour. Five minutes, even.

      They could do a lot of things in five minutes.

      “She ought to have a license to be so fine in public.” It was only when he heard his voice that he realized he’d spoken aloud.

      “Hey, you can’t go after her,” Eric said aggrievedly.

      “You were the one who was talking about relaxing.”

      “Yeah, but not by hitting on her. That’s my job. Go after one of your own.”

      Reaching for his tequila, Dom knocked it back in one swallow and stood.

      “Trust me, buddy, I am.”

      2

      “NOW THIS IS A BAR,” Delaney announced as they threaded their way through the sea of warm bodies. Colored lanterns swayed in the breeze that drifted in off the whispering waves. Pulque bottles wrapped in netting hung from the thatched roof. The air felt sultry, full of invitation.

      And Delaney felt alive.

      “Well, it’s a bar. So was the last place we stopped, and we didn’t have to walk another mile to get to it,” Cilla grumbled.

      “It wasn’t a mile. Only twenty or thirty feet, more like,” Delaney said, “and that other bar was exactly like some place you’d find in L.A. Bo-ring.”

      “My feet weren’t bored,” Cilla sighed as they stopped. “My feet were happy with that bar. And the one before that.”

      “You’ve got nobody to blame but yourself, wearing stilettos down here.” Delaney took in Cilla’s cranberry red spikes and matching skimpy silk dress. Versace, unless Delaney missed her guess. “Why didn’t you wear sandals?”

      “You can look at these gorgeous shoes and ask me that?”

      Delaney rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, Granny,” she said, patting Cilla, “we’ll find you a chair.”

      Just then, a couple moved away from one of the tall bar tables. Delaney pounced like a cat, neatly edging out a group of frat-boy types. “Sorry, guys, taken.”

      “Why not share?” A guy with spiky orange hair winked at her. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

      Delaney glanced at him and fought a smile. If he was twenty one, he was lucky. “I think we’ve got all the company we need.”

      “I bet I could buy you a drink and change your mind.”

      “It’ll take a lot more than that to change my mind.”

      He moved in closer, cocky. “I’ve got a lot more than that, trust me.”

      She laughed, the pure merriment melting away his bravado. “We’re all set for tonight, thanks,” she said, resisting the urge to pat the top of his head.

      “And here I thought he was your type.” Kelly slid onto one of the tall stools as he left. “You go for the bad boys.”

      “Bad boys, not underage boys. He’s about ten years too young to be interesting. I’d rather hold out for better.”

      “Getting choosy in your old age?” Sabrina asked in amusement.

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