Jennifer Labrecque - Better Than Chocolate...

She curled her toes over the cool edge of the tiled pool. Underwater lights illuminated the water. Odd how pools looked different at night.

And thank God, this one was practically deserted. She tucked her hair into a swim cap, a carryover from her high-school swim-team days. She’d rather look funky now than have the chlorine wreck her foil job. Green highlights weren’t in vogue, and she was going to be at her absolute mental and physical best come Monday morning.

Leaning forward, she sliced into the warm water. Ah, heavenly. She flutter-kicked to the surface and rolled to her back. Mmm, she could easily stay this way, buoyed by the water, watching the night sky beyond the glass ceiling, lulled by the sultry saxophone solo.

But that wasn’t doing squat for the extra five pounds of Godiva residing on her thighs. Unfortunately, the women in her family not only shared lousy judgment in men, but also had a tendency to carry a few extra pounds. Equally unfortunate, they also tended to eat their way through an emotional crisis—and they weren’t stuffing themselves with fresh fruit. No, they preferred rich, dark, fattening chocolate. Aunt Nelda’s backside, jiggling in sweatpants, flashed through her head.

Ugh. Atonement time. Resigned, she rolled to her stomach and struck out with a breast stroke. After the first couple of laps, the rhythm took over and her mind wandered, thinking of nothing, thinking of everything. Some people sat cross-legged on the floor to reach a meditative state. Eve swam.

Stroke, kick, breathe.

Stroke, kick, breathe.

Pool wall, flip.

Thirty laps later, Eve climbed out of the pool. The hot-tub pair were still going at it—she didn’t want to know what was going on beneath the swirling water—while the waitress was now engaged in deep conversation with the bartender. For all intents and purposes, she was alone.

She pulled off the rubber swim cap and shook her head, sending her hair tumbling to her shoulders. She finger-combed it—damp, but mercifully not green.

Eve began to towel herself dry. The thick cotton felt great against her damp skin and wet bathing suit. Warm and soft, almost like a touch. Yowza, it’d obviously been too long since she’d actually been touched if a saxophone, a little starlight and a warm towel affected her this way.

“You missed a spot.” A man spoke from the darkened area behind her. The mixture of amusement and sensuality in his baritone voice sent a shiver down her spine.

Eve started and the man stepped out of the shadows.

Holy guacamole.

At a glance he was drop-freaking-dead gorgeous. Slightly above average height, black hair, lean, towel casually draped around his neck, a drink in one hand. He was amused sophistication with a killer smile and her heart slammed against her ribs.

“What?” Well, that was marginally better than huh with her mouth hanging open.

“You missed a spot,” he repeated, taking another step forward. His brows, dark slashes that angled up at the end, lent him a decidedly wicked, sexy look. He caught the end of her towel between his lean fingers and dabbed it against her bare skin, along her collarbone. Her skin quivered and her breath hitched in her throat. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed when his fingers didn’t brush against her. He dropped the towel and it fell back against her breast.

Eve gathered her wits and laughed. He was self-assured arrogance and she was an idiot. “I bet you come with your very own warning label.”

For a second he looked startled, and then he laughed, too, a low, sexy rumble that skittered along her nerve endings and settled into a nice cozy warmth in her stomach. He raised his glass in acknowledgment, his lips quirked into a wry smile. “If I do, I’m unaware of it.”

Hmm. She thought he was very much aware of it. How many women had melted, just like her, when he had turned that smile on them? She’d bet most.

She shrugged into a cover-up, slid her feet into her mules and picked up her straw bag. “Thanks for making sure I didn’t walk around with a wet spot.”

“Would you care to join me for a drink?”

She didn’t miss the challenge in his eyes that underscored his invitation. Eve hesitated. Was she going to heed that warning label she’d slapped on him?

She’d made it her personal philosophy to never date any man who looked better than she did, a realistic outlook in her opinion. She wasn’t exactly a dog, but she wasn’t Angelina Jolie either. Extremely good-looking men and average women weren’t a winning combination. She’d seen it before. Not only did other women snipe behind Ms. Average’s back that her man could do better, but they were bold. They felt free to hit on a hot guy who was with a not-so-hot chick.

Of course, he’d invited her for a drink, not a date. And quite frankly, Eve had never been able to resist a challenge.

“Sure. Why not? I’d love a drink.”

THE WOMAN COULD DEFINITELY control her enthusiasm. And she’d definitely captured his interest. Jack found her lush curves at odds with the driving determination that put her through thirty laps in thirty-five minutes. He’d counted.

There had been something terribly sexy about the way she’d pulled off her swim cap and shaken out her hair. Sexy, because she hadn’t known she had an audience. And then when she’d begun toweling herself—it’d been time for him to make himself known and gain control of the situation.

His smile had flustered her—just for a moment and then the damnedest thing had happened. She’d put him in his place with a laugh.

He indicated a table close to the bar’s muted light. “How about here?”

“This is fine.”

He placed his glass on the table and pulled out a chair for her. She took the seat with a murmured thank-you and crossed her legs. Dark nail polish gleamed against the pale length of her toes.

Jack sat next to her and caught the waitress’s eye, motioning her over. What would she order? He dismissed Sex on the Beach or Screaming Orgasm. Too obvious. Maybe a white wine or a piña colada with one of those paper umbrellas on the glass’s rim.

“Hi. I’m Jasmine. What can I get for you?” the waitress asked.

“Scotch. Neat.”

Okay. He was doubly intrigued. A woman who swam marathon laps and drank a real drink.

The waitress turned to him. “Anything for you, sir?”

“A fresh Glenlivet. A short one.”

“Both of these on your tab?”

He smiled. “Yes. Thank you, Jasmine.”

“No,” the woman said at the same time. “Put my drink on a separate bill and I’ll sign for it.”

He couldn’t get a read on her. “But I invited you for a drink.”

“And I plan to have a drink with you. But it doesn’t mean you’re buying.” Her teeth gleamed in a pleasant, resolute smile.

“Separate tabs it is then.”

Jasmine nodded and looked between Jack and the woman as if sizing up her competition.

“I’ll be right back.” Jasmine flashed Jack a smile and turned back toward the bar. He recognized her look. He could have more than a drink, if that’s what he wanted, when her shift was up. Jasmine was a known, familiar quantity.

He turned back to the woman at his table. Flickering candlelight painted her in sepia tones. Amusement danced in her wide-set eyes. What color were they? It was impossible to tell in the semidarkness. And he really wanted to know.

“You don’t even have to try, do you?” She leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers beneath her chin, watching him.

Women often watched him, but not with this detached amusement as if he were some specimen in a jar. “No. Not really.”

“I bet you’re lethal when you put effort into it,” she said, more speculation than come-on. Which made it even more of a come-on for him.