Midnight Touch
Karen Kendall
Some men know exactly how to touch a woman… Sick of being told what she can't do, blue-blooded Kate Spinney has distanced herself from her arrogant, overly entitled family. Now living in Miami, Kate finds herself adrift in the land of spiked heels, thong panties and one very, very spicy hottie named Alejandro Torres — whose main goal seems to be showing her what she can do…to every delicious inch of his body!But Alejandro is living two lives: the one he shows Kate, and another as co-owner of a salon and spa. And what he actually does at the salon is his carefully guarded secret. Kate must never discover his hidden identity. Especially since nearly every woman in Miami is dying for his touch…
KAREN KENDALL
Midnight Touch
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
With thanks to all my Florida friends who have
brightened my new life here! And especially to
Sandra, Adolfo, Hugo, Carla and Stany for helping
me get the cultural details/Spanish straight.
I couldn’t have written this book without you.
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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Coming Next Month
1
IF WORD GETS out, I’m a dead man.
Alejandro Torres looked furtively behind him to make sure he wasn’t spotted; then ducked into the backroom of After Hours. A real man wouldn’t live this way, slipping into the darkness, blending with the shadows, unable to reveal to anyone what he did for a living.
He told himself that CIA operatives were in the same boat, but unfortunately there was one key difference: ops guys carried concealed weapons and cool gadgets. Alejandro carried a concealed pumice stone and very uncool purple foam toe separators.
CIA agents—in theory—sought to protect truth, justice and the American way. Alejandro sought to protect his machismo: keep his cojones from shriveling to the size of peas and dropping off into the dust.
His code name was Señor Manos. Not quite 007, but then, this wasn’t MI6—After Hours was an upscale salon and day spa in Coral Gables, one of the ritzier sections of Miami.
It was way too hot for a cloak, and he’d never needed a dagger yet, but the secrecy was urgent. Alejandro shuddered. If any of his buddies on the soccer team found out what he was up to, things wouldn’t be pretty. He should never, ever have filled in for that MIA nail technician!
It was one thing to be a financial partner in a spa. It was quite another for a six-foot-four Peruvian male to be a closet manicurist. But there seemed to be no turning back now: he was in demand, even at the outrageous prices he’d begun charging to dissuade appointments.
“Señor Manos,” said a high, breathy female voice. “I’ve been waiting all week for this.”
The voice came from the shadows of the pedicure chair, from behind a pair of tanned, candlelit knees that were not pressed firmly together.
In fact, the knees were a foot apart from one another, which was alarming, since they wore a short skirt. Not that Alejandro hadn’t spread his share of female knees in his thirty-four years—he certainly had. But he didn’t wish to spread this pair, not even a little bit. Those were married knees. Knees of a three-time mother.
Nevertheless, as a salon and spa owner, he was accomplished at lying to women. Just part of doing business. “And I, mi corazon, have also been waiting all week. You have toes to melt a man.”
The client giggled. “Oh, honey. Do I really have man-melting toes? I don’t believe anyone’s ever said that to me.”
“Then you have obviously been with the wrong men.” He smiled and seated himself on the low stool in front of the basin area of her pedicure chair. “How’s the water temperature?” He dipped his hands in.