Are You Lonesome Tonight?

“Hi, Dad,” Francesca returned, smiling as she leaned back in her chair. “How’s Palm Springs?”

Her father had owned a bakery while she was growing up, but he’d sold the business a few years ago, and he and her mother had spent much of that time traveling. Francesca was glad to see them relax and enjoy retirement. While they’d never lacked for anything during her childhood, they’d never had anything close to the financial freedom of Tony’s family or many of the other families whose children had attended her school. They’d put every spare penny into buying a house in a mostly posh area so she could get a great education, and the longer she spent in the “real world,” the more she appreciated their sacrifice.

“Great. Weather’s primo. I beat your mother today at golf.”

“She let you, you know.”

He sighed. “I know, but she loves me enough to let me win occasionally.”

“Just remember, Dad, she can’t even make a decent PB and J.”

“Why would anybody put jelly on first and try to spread peanut butter on top of that?”

Francesca laughed at the memory. “Got me.”

She caught her father up on the busy week and assured him she couldn’t wait for their visit on the second weekend after the resort opened. With the critic’s visit imminent, Francesca was glad she hadn’t insisted on having her parents for the grand opening and had instead taken her dad’s advice that she didn’t need the added pressure of family underfoot.

“Dad, thanks for giving me a great business sense,” she said after the update.

“And how is Tony?”

“I wasn’t comparing myself to Tony.”

“Oh, yes, you were.”

“No, I—”

“Tony has his own strengths, angel. He has a great sense of what people need.”

What they need? Oh, God, if he sensed what she really needed from him—to satisfy a gnawing itch of desire that had taken up residence in her body and refused to leave—she’d die of embarrassment.

“…that charm of his is legendary,” her father continued. “He could charm your mother into letting him win every golf match.”

It didn’t help her case against Tony that her father had always favored him. He’d always hoped she’d turn her interest to Tony and “bring him around.” Like a wary stallion, she assumed.

“I’m sure he could, Dad,” she said.

“I know you’re busy. I’ll let you go.”

She pushed aside her worry about Tony, the business and everything else. She missed her dad. Missed his guidance and clear head. “I’m never too busy for you.”

They talked a bit longer, and as she finished the phone call, she was smiling, but the smile faded as her father’s words came back to her—his charm is legendary. She needed to remember that whenever she got weak. Whenever she was tempted to fantasize about Tony’s butt. Or his smile. Or the charming way he always managed to be the center of attention.

Professionally, she wanted a successful resort. Personally, she didn’t want an affair. She wanted a life partner, a love for a lifetime. And Tony, Mr. New-Blonde-Every-Saturday-Night, didn’t come close to qualifying.

Closing her eyes against her troubles, she leaned her head back against her office chair. And—for some reason—a vision of Tony’s hands drifted through her mind.

She couldn’t explain it, to herself or anyone else, but his hands turned her on. She was fascinated with them.

Being a man of six feet tall, his hands were large, his fingers long. A bit of dark hair touched his knuckles. His sporty silver watch was perpetually wrapped around his wrist, highlighting his tanned skin.

Nothing unusual really.

Yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about the strength—and the pleasure—those hands could surely induce. Tony was never at a loss for female companionship. What ecstasy could those practiced hands bring? Would his touch be sure and relentless? Or soft and tentative? Or…both?

She forced her eyes open. Work, that’s what she needed. More and more work. These wild feelings for Tony would pass. They’d never been this intense before, had they? She’d always been able to talk herself out of an attraction to him. And she would again.

She hoped.

She had to.

“THANKS, PAUL. I appreciate the lift home.”

Paul saluted and bounced the keys to Tony’s Mercedes in his palm. “No problem, Mr. Galini. I’m glad to drive your baby anytime.”

Tony cast a longing look at his car idling in the driveway. He’d been at Chateau Fontaine, drinking and socializing. In truth, he’d had little to drink, but he’d let time get away from him—as usual—and had stayed later than he planned. With the long work hours, he was plain exhausted, and he hadn’t wanted to drive himself back to Bella Luna, even over the mere mile separating the two properties.

He was dead on his feet, and his last, semi-conscious concern was for his car.

“Take care of her, Paul. I’ll call you and arrange a time to retrieve her tomorrow.” He slid a folded fifty-dollar bill into the valet’s palm. “Remind me to tell your boss about your invaluable service.”

“You bet, Mr. G.” Paul saluted again, walking backwards towards the car. “That redhead wanted you, man. I’m tellin’ ya. I can get her room number if you want it.”

Tony yawned. This working for a living was hell on his social life. “Um-hmm. Maybe tomorrow.”

Paul and the Mercedes slid out of the horseshoe-shaped drive as Tony unlocked the front door and entered the lobby. Normally, he paused to gaze into the starlit sky, of which the glass dome over the lobby afforded him an unrestricted view, but tonight he shuffled his feet across the cream-tiled floor and headed straight for the elevator.

He’d share coffee with Francesca in the morning and enjoy the sunlight instead.

Francesca.

He leaned his forehead against the elevator wall, reliving the surprised, almost horrified look on her face when he’d nearly kissed her in the kitchen earlier.

What in the world was wrong with him?

Thankfully, the elevator doors opened, saving him from reliving that exciting, wonderful, awful moment. Again.

Eyes half closed, he stumbled down the third-floor hall, only to curse softly when he reached into his pocket to find it keyless.

He leaned back against his door. Maybe he could just sleep in the hallway. He gazed blearily down at the Cabernet-colored carpet beneath his tasseled loafers. He really needed his cushiony-soft down-feathered pillow, but he didn’t want to wake anybody up, least of all Francesca, though she was in the room right next door. The sight of her mussed and sleepy-eyed, clad in whatever big, baggy T-shirt she wore to bed would overload his already weak system.

But then some part of his still-functioning brain—and where was that part earlier when he’d been gazing at his best friend as though she was a steak and he a vegetarian who’d fallen off the wagon?—reminded him about the key code. They’d had electronic, numeric key pads installed at each door, so guests could set their own codes and enter their rooms without keys.

His idea. And, if he must say, a brilliant one.

He opened one eye long enough to input his code—the day he and Francesca had met in the fourth grade—then opened the door with a sigh of relief.

In the dark, he kicked off his shoes, then stripped off his clothes. Naked, he crawled into bed. He was asleep before his head sank fully into his plush feather pillow.