Amy Andrews - The Heat of the Night

Get behind me, Satan.

Luke was encouraged by Claudia’s contemplation, the little flare of interest he’d seen in her gaze. He nudged his thigh against hers and a quiver of something hot and sinful spread all the way up to his groin. ‘Just think about it, Claude. You don’t have to rush into anything.’

Claudia looked down at his thigh, all warm and muscled in the firelight. And tempting. Oh, so tempting. It was hot against hers and she didn’t think it had anything to do with the fire. Did he feel it too or was it just her? She wondered what he’d do if she slid her hand onto it. If she slowly moved it upwards.

Right. To. The. Top.

She blinked as the image formed in real time in her head and stood abruptly, shocked by the ferocity of the urge to follow through. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said, looking straight ahead. Not down at him. And his eyes. And his smile.

And his outrageously sexy accent.

Luke smiled at the stiffness of her stance. ‘Good,’ he murmured.

Claudia nodded. ‘Right, well...I think I might turn in,’ she said, still not looking at him.

Luke chuckled. ‘Sweet dreams.’

Claudia swallowed as she thought about the dreams she’d been having this last week.

Not one of them sweet.

‘See you in the morning,’ she said with as much nonchalance as she could muster before she fled the beach for the safety of the Copacabana Suite, far away from men with sexy accents and delectable thighs.

FIVE

Claudia barely slept a wink. It was as if Luke had tripped some switch in her brain and a hundred different possibilities for what the Tropicana could be had bombarded her. And frankly it was a relief to think about something other than the way Luke’s hand had felt on her breast. The way his boardies had clung to him in the pool.

The way his thigh had sizzled against hers.

By the time morning rocked around, her head was buzzing. And she needed to share! Avery and Jonah weren’t on her radar—she’d walked in on them too many times to know that spontaneous bursts of shared creativity were off the table.

But the one man who had inspired them was just through a connecting door and he was in there alone.

She rose at six, climbed into her uniform—the skirt for a change—and made copious notes. When she was all spent she took to the floor, pacing it until the clock ticked over to seven—a perfectly reasonable hour. After that, all propriety was off. She rapped once on the door before pushing it open, knowing in her gut that Luke wouldn’t have locked it.

The room was like a black hole when she pressed inside but that didn’t deter her. It was only eight in the evening in the UK—still a perfectly decent hour. She marched over to the curtains from familiarity alone and yanked them back with a harsh squeal along the railing. Another impossibly sunny day greeted her and was surprisingly buoying.

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