You Sexy Thing!. Tori Carrington

fingers into his palms, vaguely aware of the way they suddenly itched. To his surprise, he found himself jealous of the water. He wanted to be the one to explore every inch of flawless skin the water touched.

      His mind finally kicking back into gear, he brought his gaze up to her face.

      She was watching him.

      “Imagine that. My own personal Peeping Tom.” A smile flitted across her lips. “You don’t mind locking the door on your way back out, do you, Tom? I mean, after you’ve looked your fill.”

      Dylan felt his skin grow hotter than the steam coating him. “I can’t believe… I have no idea… I am so very sorry. I must have the wrong room.”

      He somehow backtracked his way to the hall, his feet moving though he didn’t recall sending them the order to do just that. He stood staring at the room that looked like any other as the automatic locking door slowly began closing. What in the hell had just happened? A scant second before the door could close completely, he stuck a hand out to stop it, then reached in to tug his suitcase out.

      He collapsed against the door and closed his eyes, dragging in deep breaths to even out the hammering of his heartbeat.

      He supposed this was the way kids felt after they walked in on their parents having sex for the first time.

      He groaned at the comparison, then moved away from the door, as if just touching it was somehow…immoral.

      He’d made an honest mistake. That’s all. He’d gotten into the elevator. Got distracted thinking about the lack of sex in his life. He swallowed again. No, no, the limbo status of his life. Then got out on the floor that had already been pressed before he even entered the damn thing.

      He’d never been so embarrassed…so humiliated in his entire life.

      Well, okay, there was that one incident when he was twelve when his mother had stripped him of his swim trunks in the pool, trying to teach him the finer points of nudism. But this ranked a very, very close second.

      GRACIE MATTIAS TUCKED a thick white towel around her body then padded quickly toward the door. A cautious glance around and down the hall outside told her that her uninvited guest was long gone.

      She closed the door then stared at the locks. There was the automatic one. The double bolt. The security chain. One by one she locked and checked all of them, not surprised that her fingers were trembling. It wasn’t every day that one got surprised in the shower like that. She realized the logic of her statement, and the unlikely chance that it would happen again in this lifetime, then sighed and undid all the locks again. She forced herself to turn and stalk into the living area of the sumptuous suite. She refused to live her life in fear of what might happen. Or spend every spare moment looking over her shoulder for lurking degenerates. Or check the back seat every time she got into her car. For heaven’s sake, she counseled people on how to overcome such emotional fears. She couldn’t begin to cater to them herself.

      She swiveled on her heel, then secured every damn lock again.

      There was fearless and there was stupid. And no matter how adorably dumbfounded the man was who had turned her normal shower experience into something to remember, the simple fact was she didn’t know him from Jack the Ripper.

      She stepped back into the living area, picked up the phone and dialed a room number.

      “Very funny, Rick,” she said when her personal assistant answered. Suddenly she wondered why he had a room three floors away from her. Shouldn’t he be next door? Ready to protect her honor should some Peeping Tom burst into her room for an eyeful while she was in the shower?

      She grimaced. Give her a minute and her subconscious would recreate the infamous shower scene from Psycho. She really needed to get a grip.

      Something thudded on the other end of the line. “What’s funny?” he said.

      Gracie sank into the king-size mattress and switched the receiver to her other ear. She’d chosen her assistant for his organizational skills, not for his sense of humor. It didn’t hurt that he was five years younger than she was and could double for Leonardo DiCaprio. Of course she’d have to nip his comedic tendencies in the bud right now if she was to remain sane during the next two weeks of her promotional tour. “I know I said I was getting bored with this trip. But did you have to send me a Peeping Tom to liven things up? Certainly even you are more imaginative than that.”

      Rick’s long-suffering sigh sounded over the line. “Grace, what are you blathering on about now? Peeping Tom? You’re sixteen floors up. Unless you’re talking about someone looking at you through binoculars from the building across the street—”

      “I’m talking about the guy who just walked into my room while I was taking a shower.”

      “Aah.”

      “So you did have something to do with it,” she said with relief, picking up a copy of her book, which lay on the bed next to her.

      “Nope.”

      “Rick, I’m going to hang up now.”

      “I think you’re losing it, Dr. Mattias.”

      “You’re just catching on now? Rick, I lost it way back when you were still calling your penis a pee-pee.”

      His laugh tickled her ear. “You know, this sex-talk stuff is taking some getting used to.”

      “This from someone who hears it every day. Anyway, we’re not anywhere near indulging in sex talk, Rick. I merely called an important part of your anatomy by its proper name. I could ask you what you call it.” Grace fanned her thumb against the three hundred and some pages of her hardcover book. Sometimes it was difficult to believe that she had had the discipline to sit down and write such a tome on human sexuality. Other times, she remembered every single word in there and flushed, horrified that she’d actually said one thing or another.

      As long as the media never found out she was a fraud.

      Well, she wasn’t really a fraud. Exactly. It was just that all of her advice was based on 812 case studies rather than personal experience. Which was as it should be. Still, she couldn’t help thinking that putting her theories into practice would have allowed her a more…intimate insight into what she was suggesting others do with their love lives.

      She flipped the book over to gaze at the back of the dust jacket. She hadn’t wanted to include a picture of herself. But there one was. Funny, the woman smiling into the camera appeared very sexually experienced.

      She tossed the book onto the floor then curled her toes around the edges.

      Another muffled sound filtered through the telephone line, reminding her that she was still talking to her assistant. “Rick, what are you doing?”

      “Would you believe me if I said your Peeping Tom just paid me a visit?”

      “Nope.”

      “Didn’t think so.” He chuckled, though somehow Grace got the distinct impression it wasn’t meant for her.

      Crossing her legs, she switched the receiver to her other ear. “Are you messing around on company time, Rick?” she asked curiously.

      She realized she knew very little about her assistant’s private life. Not that she wanted to, mind you. But it suddenly struck her as odd that he would have one. And so soon after their arrival in New York.

      She glanced over her shoulder, toward the monumental view out her window, and wondered what life would be like if she had someone in her room with her right now. Preferably a tall, dark and sexy someone who could fool around with her while she was on the phone. Take a long, breathtaking walk with through Central Park. Go see a Broadway play with. Someone to sip cappuccino with at one of those cozy coffee-houses all over the place.

      A shiver shimmied down her spine, reminding her just how long it was since she’d been with someone.

      Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t had breakfast.