Joanne Rock - Up Close and Personal

“Are you kidding? That one makes me want to give myself an erotic massage.”

There was a round of laugher and one hearty “amen” to that as Jessica squeezed into the last available square inch at the wooden railing overlooking the shore.

The woman beside her—a buff blonde probably closing in on fifty with discreetly tweaked facial features—was pointing out into the water where six seriously ripped guys swam through the surf.

The view was diminished by their distance from shore, but even so, only a blind woman wouldn’t feel the testosterone tide emanating from those focused, intense men swimming as if their lives depended on it.

And, of course, their lives did depend on it, since the only guys who would be out training in the middle of the ocean off Coronado Island were Navy SEALs. The shaved heads and taut, defined muscles were a sure sign the next BUD/S class must be in session. Jessica had been a San Diego resident for the past decade, and she knew even longtime local ladies never tired of catching a glimpse of the honed male perfection that went through this rigorous training.

Jess watched with detached appreciation—her work with all things sensual made her take a more clinical approach to arousal. Of course, her experience with men tended to distance her, too.

She just hoped she would bring the right mix of enthusiasm to the table tonight to present her material in a convincing manner. Stepping back from the rail, she sent a prayer off into the universe, grateful for the way the heavens must be smiling on her. She’d wanted to arouse these women with her first class on reclaiming their sensuality? Thanks to the U.S. Navy, her audience had already been majorly warmed up.

Now she simply had to divert their attention from the mouthwatering men and proceed.

“Ladies, if I can have your attention for just one hour, you’ll learn the touches that will have any man begging to be in your bed.”

Half the heads on the porch turned her way and two women exchanged winks.

Not satisfied with a fifty-percent success rate, Jess pressed on, determined to make this class an instant smash hit. She had an idea for parlaying one of her planned demonstrations into something that would keep this group talking for weeks.

“In fact, as a bonus for tonight only, I’ll be glad to show you firsthand how these techniques play out in real life. With a real man.” Capitalizing on the interest of the group, she made the most tantalizing offer she could think of. “If any one of you ladies would like to hunt us down a willing male specimen for practice, I’ll demonstrate how quickly the power of touch turns any guy into a smoldering mass of muscle ready to fulfill your every last sensual wish.”

A chorus of “oohs” and feminine squeals filled the balcony as the rest of the women spun away from the ocean view. And before she could consider the logistics of what she’d just proposed, two of the ladies shoved their way through their peers toward the exit.

IT HAD BEEN a long time since Ricardo—Rocco—Easton had cause to wear a bow tie. And the last time he’d donned one, the suit had been a hell of a lot more upscale than what he had on now as he worked the generic black neckwear into a knot to complete his waiter’s disguise.

Still, his fingers hadn’t forgotten the drill and the man in the mirror in his white shirt and tie reminded him of dress whites and—

Hell.

He turned away from the hotel bathroom mirror with an oath, knowing he owed the bout of stupid nostalgia to this place. Coronado Island. He’d avoided this part of San Diego ever since his injury had cost him his spot among the SEALs. He couldn’t even look out at the damn view from the glitzy Hotel del Coronado without a wave of memories threatening to drag him under like the surf once had along this same stretch of shore.

But for the sake of investigating the woman who had possibly scammed his car dealer father, Rocco was willing to sacrifice a few hours of mental peace.

He shoved open the bathroom door so hard it banged off the wall behind it, his thoughts of his father’s failing mental health upsetting him all over again. His dad had days of clarity and days where he was more than a little muddled, so Rocco didn’t know how much stock to put in his claim that he’d been swindled by a beautiful car buyer who had no intention of making a single payment on the vehicle she’d purchased from Easton Luxury Motor Cars.

Possibly his father had his facts wrong. But the preliminary paperwork backed up his statement. Jessica Winslow wasn’t making her payments.

And although she was only one person—one alleged scam artist—she represented a growing new trend in deception Rocco found abhorrent. There seemed to be a rising willingness in women to use flirtation as a means to commit crime—a way to catch men off guard.

If his father had been Jessica’s victim, Rocco would see she paid the dealership every cent of the loan she’d been in default on for months. The old man’s business had been floundering for the past year and another bad debt could very well close his doors for good.

The injury to Anthony Easton’s pride would be even more devastating than the wound to his wallet.

So tonight’s mission to learn the truth was instrumental in Rocco’s goal to help his father stay independent for as long as possible. And since weeding through a paper trail that might not reveal the full extent of Jessica Winslow’s circumstances, Rocco’s work tonight would be as up close and personal as hers promised to be, thanks to the free pass a waiter’s uniform gave him around the hotel. He’d check out the woman’s seminar and see for himself if she was legit.

“Oh my.”

A feminine voice in the corridor ahead forced his thoughts back to the moment at hand. As he relinquished his strategic planning long enough to take stock of his surroundings, he noticed two elegantly dressed ladies frozen in the middle of the hall, matching pink drinks sloshing around their martini glasses.

At their mutual look of openmouthed surprise he was hard-pressed not to check his fly. More likely, his expression, as he thundered down the hall, had caught them off guard.

Damn it. Had his time away from the SEALs turned his covert operational skills to crap? He schooled his features into something he hoped resembled a smile.

“Ladies.” He tossed in a quick bow and then realized that was something waiters only did a hundred years ago.

“Can I help you find anything?”

His words broke the spell and one of them—a brunette probably nearing sixty and still smoking hot—grinned like the Cheshire cat.

“As a matter of fact…” She turned to her friend with a raised eyebrow as if seeking approval. At the blonde’s nod, the dark-haired lady continued, “We’ve been charged with finding a little help for a demonstration at the workshop we’re attending here.”

The blonde silently pointed to a door a few feet behind them before leaning in to take a sip of her neon-pink drink.

Jessica Winslow’s room. Jessica Winslow’s workshop.

Showtime.

He nodded, unable to resist the lure of an open invitation into the very seminar he’d hoped to investigate. Did Ms. Winslow run a legitimate business? He’d look for the vehicle she’d defaulted on after he gathered a little intel on the woman herself. In her case, simply repossessing her SUV wouldn’t bring him enough satisfaction if she’d swindled his dad.

Rocco had turned to the recovery business after his doc at a military hospital told him he’d never be fit for the teams again. While repo work wasn’t exactly his lifelong dream, he’d figured he could at least help out his father by providing the old man with the service free of charge. He made money off his other clients—repossessing vehicles from deadbeat debtors. It paid the bills while he figured out what to do with his life now that he couldn’t serve his country.