As the elevator silently ascended, Lacy unwrapped the rest of the towels. When the doors whooshed open, she stuffed the plastic wrapping into a wicker wastebasket next to the elevator threshold, then followed the oriental runner to Suite 302 and tapped on the door.
"Come on in," called a deep male voice.
She slipped her key card into the slot, entered the room?
And froze.
John Ivers faced the balcony. With one hand, he clutched a small cell phone to his ear; with the other, he waved an equally small address book, like a conductor directing an orchestra.
And he stood naked. Gloriously naked. Beautiful. Buff. Bare. Tan. Broad shoulders tapered down to a trim waist. Buttocks, without tan lines, rounded deliciously above long, well-muscled thighs.
Lacy struggled for air. Embarrassment fought with appreciation at the view. Vaguely, she became aware of her discomfort. Damp coldness had drenched her T-shirt. A drop of water traced down her cheek. She shivered, as much from shock at the sudden sight of a glorious male body, as from the room's coolness.
Arousal replaced shock, however, as she took in the magnificent details of the man's physique. Feverish heat, from her curled toes to her soaked hair, whisked away the clammy chill.
For a long moment, the man ignored her as he talked into the phone. "I don't need any more excuses. Your housekeeping has finally made it, but I'll still be sending an unfavorable report to your boss. Furthermore, none of the phones in this suite work. Get someone up here immediately."
The door slipped from Lacy's nerveless fingers and slammed shut behind her.
The man spun on one bare foot. For a breathless moment, they faced each other.
A drift of dark curls traced through a well-muscled six-pack of abs. Near the waist they joined to form an arrow culminating in a mass of darker curls starting a hand's breadth below his naval.
"Jesus H. Christ," Ivers yelled, holding the tiny address book over himself where a fig leaf traditionally rests.
He definitely needs a larger address book...
)
