The Sex Diet

She might be able to go from geek to chic for a week, but a permanent transformation was more than she could reasonably hope for. Besides, she knew Hank well enough to know that over the years he’d considered her as many things, but regrettably potential girlfriend or lover had never been one of them.

A smile caught the corner of her mouth. The word nuisance leapt immediately to mind. As children, Hank had grudgingly tolerated her presence with the sort of martyred stoicism reserved for pesky little girls. But miraculously, by the time she’d reached her teens, she and Hank had developed a very close friendship—one they’d maintained over the years via e-mail, phone calls and yearly visits—and she would have liked nothing better than to parlay that special connection into something more.

Hank, though, had never been remotely interested.

Her lips twisted with wry humor. Hell, if it hadn’t been for that ill-fated almost-kiss, she wouldn’t have been convinced he’d even noticed that she was a girl. God knows, he’d always treated her just like one of the guys. He’d never displayed the least amount of modesty around her, had routinely stripped and gone skinny-dipping right in front of her drooling, flaming face and, oftentimes, had even shared intimate details of his relationships with other women with her. Things, she was sure, he shared with his male cronies. Items that had made her squirm with longing and jealousy, made her want to break things and scream.

Of course, she’d never done any of those things. She’d always smiled, listened and teased and been her typically amiable self because she’d rather be flayed alive and dipped in boiling oil than to admit her feelings were anything more than platonic, that she’d wanted more from him than a chuck under the chin or a friendly pat on the back. Samantha knew that if Hank ever discovered her true feelings for him, she’d go from being his friend to an object of pity—which was completely intolerable.

When she’d first considered the sex diet, for one blazingly beautiful dramatic moment, Samantha had allowed herself the luxury of dreaming that it would work on him—after all, being drunk almost had—that he would take one look at her, be utterly bowled over by his attraction for her, that he’d curse himself for a fool for never realizing what a prize she was.

Then she’d burnt herself with the curling iron and reason had returned—if he hadn’t figured out what a prize she was after all this time, realistically, what were the chances of that happening now?

None.

She’d long ago resigned herself to be content with the relationship they had. She’d wasted enough time lamenting what might have been and had decided to put the remainder of her energy into an attainable goal—finding a lover for this week who would and could induct her into the Big O Hall of Fame.

Hank could, without a doubt—just thinking about it made her thighs quiver with repressed longing—but there was a huge difference between could and would, and she knew he wouldn’t.

“We have a small reservation error, yes,” Tina glumly admitted.

“Another one?” Samantha detected a slight hint of annoyance in his tone.

Tina closed her eyes miserably. “Yes.”

A deep sigh, then, “All right. I’ll be right there.”

Clearly hers wasn’t the only booking error dear Tina had flubbed up, Samantha thought and offered up a sympathetic smile.

Tina’s nervous gaze found hers. “He’ll be here in a minute.”

Samantha nodded, confident that Hank would see to this mess, and absently scratched the inside of her arm. She was quickly running out of time—she needed an antihistamine and a shrimp-cocktail snack. More blasted seafood, the main ingredient of this damned diet. Besides, every moment spent standing at this desk was a moment she could be using to size up possible lovers, officially put her diet to the test.

Her lips curled. Who knew? With a little pheromone therapy and a little luck, hopefully she’d score.

HANK MASTERSON DEFTLY DEPOSITED a crab onto open sand away from the pool area and made his way back around the front of the house to handle another Tina screwup. God, how he missed good old dependable Gladys. Gladys, who despite her cranky nature and the cigarette perpetually crammed in the corner of her mouth, could work the computer reservation system blindfolded and handle any crisis—real or imagined—without his input.

But all good things eventually come to an end and the old adage had held true with his help, because Gladys had been wooed away from Clearwater by a man who had more to offer her than Hank—a few million and a yacht. Hank had hired Gladys’s granddaughter as a favor—“She’ll be fantastic!” Gladys had assured—and he’d wrongfully assumed that efficiency and competence would run in the family.

Not so.

So far Tina had fried two top-of-the-line computer systems, had lost his backup copies of past guest registers and had managed to single-handedly sabotage every electronic device save the walkie-talkies since she arrived. Hank figured it was only a matter of time before those went, too.

The only thing that saved her from a pink slip was the fact that, despite her penchant for tearing things up, she was very personable, had good phone skills…and she was related to Gladys. Hank sighed. He couldn’t in good conscience fire Tina, when her grandmother had been like a second mother to him over the past several years.

Still, Hank thought as irritation pulled at a muscle near his mouth, there were times—like now—when the idea held immense appeal. Between wrapping up the busy season and this godforsaken Belle of the Beach contest, things on his little stretch of sand were really hopping. He needed a dependable desk clerk. He didn’t have a single bed left and he’d had to call in a temp agency to assist his overworked kitchen staff. A full house made for a fatter bank account, so other than being pleasantly exhausted—and having a receptionist from hell—he really couldn’t complain. Hank blew out a breath, loped up the front porch steps and emptied the sand out of his shoes. All in all he—

“Hi, Hank,” Candy, one of the Belle contestants, called from the front porch swing.

Hank stilled for a fraction of a second, morphed a wince into an amiable smile and returned the greeting. Candy wore a come-pump-me grin and her eyes glittered with blatant invitation. Despite the fact that he’d ignored every suggestive overture and turned down the opportunity to see her tattoo several times over the past couple of days, Candy nonetheless continued to stalk him. Considering the fact that she wore a bikini which bared all but her nipples and narrowly covered her crotch, Hank grimly suspected the tattoo was on a part of her anatomy best avoided.

As a rule, he avoided all female guests at the B&B who seemed interested in pursuing a little recreational vacation sex. It wasn’t good for business. There were too many other available women in the world to take an unnecessary risk and so far he’d never been uncontrollably tempted. Tempted? Yes. But beyond the scope of his control? No.

Granted things had been harder this week, what with the half-naked gorgeous Belle contestants parading along his stretch of sand. But he could handle it. He pushed into the foyer, felt the welcome blast of cool air from the air conditioner. In a few days this contest would be over and he’d have the time to find a suitable partner, one not on his guest roster and not affiliated with this damned contest. He’d simply have to wait it out and—

Hank’s thoughts fractured and his step faltered as his gaze landed on the most delectable backside he’d ever seen.

Sweet Lord, he thought as perspiration suddenly dotted his upper lip and a bolt of heat threatened to incinerate his groin, another hottie.

Hell, she didn’t even have to turn around for him to know that she was absolutely gorgeous and absolutely, unequivocally hot. A mass of light-red curls tumbled sexily over her shoulders and down her slim back. She had a tiny waist, nicely flared hips and legs up to there. Unlike every other woman around here, she had no tan to speak of and her skin glowed with a pale, peachy health. A sweet fruity scent assaulted his senses, her scent he knew, and the very essence of that smell triggered something hot, wild and primal within him. Curiously it seemed vaguely familiar.

Pure unadulterated lust chugged through his veins, sped purposefully toward his groin. His skin prickled and his mouth parched. She was temptation on legs and every instinct he had went on full-tilt red alert, causing a roaring through his head. This went beyond the typical run of the mill lust, was somehow sharper, keener, more intense. Less manageable, Hank thought ominously.

There was only one remedy for an attraction like this, Hank thought grimly—absolute quarantine.

He’d have to avoid her like the damned plague.

She turned around then and recognition sucker-punched him, driving every bit of breath from his lungs. Hank felt his eyes bug and his jaw drop. The roaring he’d heard just seconds before ceased abruptly and was replaced with a screeching howl akin to a jet engine gearing up for takeoff. His vision blackened around the edges as he pulled her familiar face into sharp focus.

Samantha McCafferty?

2

SAMANTHA SMILED WARMLY and breathed an audible sigh of relief, then rushed across the foyer and gave him a tight hug. Hank reacted automatically, hugged her back, though he still felt like the world had been turned upside down.

“Hank, thank God. There’s been some sort of mix-up and apparently my room isn’t available.” She drew back and those twinkling green eyes gazed up at him. “Please tell me you can fix this.”

“Samantha? Sam?” Hank said, still in a state of slack-jawed shock over her transformation. The rest of the room swelled back into view, but he still felt like he’d been knocked over the head with an anvil.

“Yeah, it’s me,” she confirmed with a small shrug, not the least bit offended. She did a delightful pirouette, then looked back up and met his gaze. “I, uh, gained a little weight.”

She’d gained more than a little weight, Hank thought as his breath once again evacuated his lungs—she’d gained one helluva figure. My God…she had breasts. He blinked, swallowed, blinked again. Great breasts that lay under her tank top like a couple of lush, ripe peaches. And that wasn’t the only change, either, Hank noted as he continued to stare at her in openmouthed amazement. She’d lost the glasses and her light green eyes sparkled with amusement and something else, something mysterious and not so easily read. Something almost…wicked.

In the dimmest recesses of his mind a warning bell sounded, but he was too stunned to pay it any heed.

In addition to that, her hair no longer looked like it had had an unfortunate accident with an electrical outlet. Her curls were still tight, yet soft and tumbled over her shoulders like long strands of curly ribbons. Which seemed appropriate, considering she looked like a delectable gift, ready to be opened.

She’d always been beautiful to him—Sam was gorgeous to anyone who took the time to notice because, despite popular opinion, true beauty was something that couldn’t be measured aesthetically. It came from within, was the sum total of the entire package. His gaze drifted over her once more. But he’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t affected by the outward changes. He was a guy after all and every guy responded to visual stimuli. Not that he’d needed any additional reason to want her—he’d been secretly in lust with her for years—from the summer she turned eighteen to be exact.

Hank scratched his temple, tried to gather his scattered wits. “Fix what again?” he asked, still bewildered.

Then it hit him. Her room. First week of September. God, how could he have forgotten? he thought, mentally smacking his forehead. He’d talked to her just a couple of weeks ago, had been looking forward to her coming down. Her visits were one of the brightest spots of his year. Hank scowled. It was this damned Belle of the Beach contest. He hadn’t had time—

“My room,” Sam repeated. “According to Tina, I don’t have a room. Which isn’t possible because I have a standing reservation. Right?”

Yes, Hank thought hesitantly, she should…but he had a terrible suspicion that she didn’t. A knuckle of unease nudged his belly. “Er…let me take a look.”

He moved behind the counter, searched the system for Samantha’s reservation and, just as he’d grimly suspected, she didn’t have one.