But between Lynda and the constant pressure and people and companies trying to woo him, he’d had enough. He needed peace. Quiet. Away from everyone and everything pulling him in so many directions he couldn’t even concentrate on his work. In a place where no one knew him. In a location that would cleanse him, body and soul, of the craziness that had wrapped itself around every facet of his life with a chokehold. A place where he could get back to basics and find inner peace. Somewhere plain and simple. Filled with history and a sense of legend. A step back in time.
There’d been no doubt in his mind where he’d wanted to go. Traveling to Cusco, then hiking from the gateway city to Machu Picchu had been a sojourn he’d wanted to take for years, ever since studying the Inca empire in high school. The Inca people, their society and culture, had fascinated him. Unfortunately college and life had prevented him from making the trip, but the desire to go had remained bubbling in the back of his mind.
And now he hadn’t allowed anything to stop him from taking the journey. Because now it wasn’t just a case of wanting to make the trip-he needed to do so. He’d use this time away to renew himself and reflect and when he returned to New York, he’d be prepared to deal with the future of his formula.
He finished off his bottle of water and was looking around for the waiter to order another when his attention was caught by a woman walking toward him across the plaza. Huge dark glasses and a floppy straw hat obscured most of her face. But it wasn’t her face that riveted his attention. No, it was the sinfully sinuous way she moved-combined with the fact that the sun’s bright rays slanting behind her rendered her gauzy, ankle-length skirt nearly transparent.
Whoa, baby. And what a view it was.
He sat up straighter, mesmerized by how the transparent material outlined her outrageously curvy hips and long, shapely legs. His mouth went dry and he instantly fantasized about what, if anything, she wore beneath her skirt. With every step closer, his temperature notched up another degree. He was surprised she didn’t leave a trail of smoke behind her. His gaze flicked upward, noting a bright turquoise tank top that showed off toned arms and a hint of cleavage. When he’d planned this trip, the last thing on his mind had been women-other than wanting to get away from the ones fawning over him because of his formula.
But one look at smokin’ hot Miss Transparent Skirt sure as hell had women racing to the forefront of his mind. And this woman in particular. Along with the reminder that he hadn’t been with anyone since Lynda. And in a single heartbeat, this woman made him want to banish the phrase hadn’t been with anyone lately from his vocabulary. With an intensity that surprised him. The last time he’d been so instantly smitten with a woman, especially just on the basis of her looks, was…never.
A cloud drifted across the sun, ending his unexpected view. “Damn,” he muttered. He reached into his pocket, intending to toss some centavos on the table to pay for his water then go after her, but he realized she was heading toward the café where he sat. Sitting back, he adopted a nonchalant pose and from behind his sunglasses watched her sit down several tables away. Before he could strike up a conversation, however, she reached into her canvas tote bag, withdrew a magazine, and promptly opened it and started reading.
His gaze drifted idly over her reading material and halted. U.S Weekly Review. His favorite magazine, which, along with its like-minded competitor, Newsweek, was the only publication outside the scientific community he religiously read. He took particular note because the issue she held was one which contained a very inspirational article on stress and balancing your life. The article’s catchphrase flashed in his mind: No change, no gain-a bit of advice he’d taken to heart. Advice that had inspired him to finally get off his ass and make this trip.
At that moment, the waiter approached her and she lowered the magazine. Thanks to her huge dark glasses and floppy straw hat, all he could tell was that she had a great smile, one which clearly dazzled the waiter. And, after hearing her order a bottle of water, that she sounded distinctly American.
Now that his brain cells were no longer stupefied by her transparent skirt, he decided she was most likely here with someone, a husband no doubt, although a quick glance at her left hand showed she wore no ring. Okay, so a boyfriend. One who probably had a black belt and was on his way to the café right now.
Just then, she looked directly at him-or at least he thought she did. It was hard to tell with those crazy huge sunglasses. And she smiled. Although her transparent skirt was a tough act to follow, that smile did a damn decent job.
Just in case a black-belt boyfriend hovered in the area, he turned his head left then right, then took a peek over his shoulder. As there was no one else around him, he concluded her smile was meant for him, which greatly pleased him, although sort of surprised him. While he’d had his fair share of girlfriends and lovers, he’d never describe himself as a babe magnet. In his experience, not all women found his everyday look of goggles and dingy lab coat sexy. Discounting, of course, the models who’d draped themselves over him at the numerous gatherings recently thrown in his honor by the various cosmetics firms vying for his attention. But then he hadn’t been wearing his goggles or lab coat at those functions. Still, he normally wasn’t the guy hot women flocked to at parties.
Maybe because you never go to parties, his inner voice interjected. When you did, look at all those gorgeous, hot models who’d wanted a piece of you.
Not him, he reminded himself. His formula. A sobering reality check.
But this woman didn’t know anything about his formula. That smile was just for him. And that felt damn good.
He smiled back, and she asked, “Do you speak English?”
Her voice was soft and slightly husky, as if she’d just rolled out of bed. His imagination conjured up an image of her long legs tangled in his sheets, and heat that had nothing to do with the bright sun sizzled through him.
“Only when I want someone to understand what I’m saying,” he said.
She laughed, a sexy, smoky sound that resonated through him and vibrated all his nerve endings to attention. “I thought you might be American,” she said.
“Why’s that?”
“Your shirt.”
He looked down at the colorful, short-sleeved tropical-print shirt he’d left unbuttoned over his T-shirt. “Are you saying my Hawaiian print screams American tourist?”
“Loud and clear. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Based on your accent, I’m guessing you’re from the northeast.”
“New York.”
Her smile widened and she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the small, round ceramic table. “Really? Me, too. I live in Manhattan.”
He huffed out a surprised breath. “Small world. So do I. Lower West Side.”
“Upper East Side.”
He didn’t doubt it for a minute. He couldn’t see much of her, but what he could see-the bright smile, the toned arms and shoulders to match her obviously toned legs, the glasses, hat and sandals he guessed bore designer logos and were the height of fashion-looked pampered and expensive. Definitely high-maintenance. Just the sort of woman who wasn’t his type. Just the sort of woman who’d been fawning over him lately at every cosmetic company function he’d attended. Just the sort of woman who represented everything he was trying to avoid.
Yet even as his better judgment reminded him of that, along with the fact that he had enough trouble in his life right now trying to focus on the biggest career decision he’d ever faced without throwing a woman-any woman-into the mix, his libido had him asking, “So what brings you to Cusco?”
She made a breathy noise that sounded self-conscious. “You’ll think I’m crazy, but I’m here because of an article I read in this magazine.” She held up the copy of U.S. Weekly Review. “It’s about rebalancing your life.”
Brett’s brows shot up. “No Change, No Gain?”
There was no mistaking her surprise. “That’s right! You’ve read it?”
Okay, maybe he wasn’t looking for female companionship, but how could he possibly ignore a woman who was not only smokin’ hot, but also clearly a kindred spirit? “Would you believe that it’s part of the reason I’m here?”
She laughed. “Considering the fact that it induced me to come here and hike up the Andes to Machu Picchu-something that’s so outside my comfort zone as to be laughable, yes, I’d believe it. You weren’t kidding when you said ‘small world.’”
Before he could reply, the waiter returned with her bottle of water. After setting it down, the young man approached Brett’s table.
“Another, señor?” the young man asked, picking up Brett’s empty bottle.
“Please.” After the waiter moved off, Brett studied her for several seconds and couldn’t deny he liked what he saw. A lot. Her unmistakable uptown aura rendered her Ms. Wrong, but the sex appeal rippling off her and grabbing him by the throat-and groin-rendered her Ms. Right Now. So, while she wasn’t what he needed for the long term, the tightening ache in his boxers strongly indicated she was definitely what he wanted for the short term. The fact they were on the same no change, no gain wavelength just sealed the deal.
“Would you care to join me?” he asked.
She hesitated for several seconds, and he figured she was debating whether or not he might be a serial killer. Clearly she decided he wasn’t because she said, “Sure. No point in talking across the tables.”
She rose and, after picking up her magazine, tote bag and bottle of water, wove her way around the trio of tables separating them with the same sinuous grace with which she’d crossed the plaza. His eyes shielded by his own sunglasses, Brett’s gaze skimmed down her shapely, feminine form, from her tank top to the flat sandals decorated with colorful jeweled flowers that adorned her feet, and awareness jolted through him. No doubt about it, she’d lit his fire without even trying. She slid into the chair opposite his and set down her things.
“Thanks for the invite,” she said with a half smile, drawing his attention to her full lips which looked even better up close and glistened with a touch of something glossy. Holding out her hand, she said, “I’m Kayla Watson. Stressed, out-of-balance New Yorker hoping to be rehabilitated.”
He shook her hand, noting her firm, businesslike grip, along with the fact that her skin felt remarkably soft. “Nice to meet you, Kayla,” he said, holding on to her hand a fraction longer than was necessary before releasing her. “Brett Thornton. Another stressed, out-of-balance New Yorker.” He inhaled and her scent wafted across to him, all but intoxicating him.
“Your fragrance,” he murmured. “Coconut. And a hint of lime…” He inhaled again. “Some sort of flower.” And something else that was uniquely her.
In spite of her large glasses, there was no missing her surprise. “The flower is gardenia. So what are you-some sort of perfume tester?”
“No. Just have a keen sense of smell.” He smiled. “Especially when it comes to women with beautiful smiles who smell like delicious tropical drinks with flowers floating in them.” As he spoke, he found himself wishing she’d remove her glasses and hat so he could see her face. He wanted to know if the rest of her packed as powerful a wallop as her smile.
And her transparent skirt.
“Thanks, but I’d think most men would describe a tropical drink with flowers floating in it as girly or frou-frou. Delicious? Not a chance. Makes me wonder what you do for a living-since it’s not perfume tester.”
A sense of relaxation eased through Brett. Damn, but it felt good to be with someone who didn’t know. Who didn’t want something from him. Leaning back in his chair, he grinned. “Guess.”
The waiter arrived with his water, and after he’d departed she said, “Hit man?”
“Because I look like a murderer?”
“No. Because I think it’s important to rule out occupations like that, especially if we’re going to share a café table.”
“Not a hit man,” he assured her, “although I’d hardly admit it if I were.”
“Noted. How about a chef? They need a good sense of smell.”
“I can barely fry an egg.”
He felt her gaze roam over him. “Your hands look strong. And clever. Artist?”
Blood shot to his groin at the thought of showing her just how clever his hands could be. “Can only draw stick figures.”
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