That still didn’t prepare her, though, for what happened next.

She’d been told an escort would meet her at baggage claim, and sure enough, there he was—a man in his thirties, blond and mildly handsome with an endearing smile, holding up a card with her last name on it. And the moment they made eye contact, a horrifying thought struck her: He thinks I’m here for sex! He thinks I’ve come to live out hedonistic fantasies with strangers! Ugh.

She thought about defending herself, explaining the situation—but that would just seem childish, and even prudish, to a guy who delivered people to the Hotel Erotique for a living. Still, as she identified herself and he said, “Hi, I’m Gabe,” smoothly taking her bags, her face heated with embarrassment.

Oh brother. This was not a good start. How are you going to spend two weeks at this place if you can’t look at anyone without blushing? Unfortunately, though, this was the first moment she’d thought about the other people she would encounter there, or how they would perceive her. She’d—stupidly—envisioned herself sunning and swimming all alone, in complete solitude. Damn Kevin and Shannon for getting her into this.

The part that really threw her, though, was when she followed Gabe through the airport, traversing hallways, going through doors, until finally he led her out into the hot south Florida sun—not to a limo or shuttle bus, but onto a tarmac, where a small private jet waited, suspiciously devoid of color or markings.

“Um, where are we going?”

Gabe didn’t appear taken aback by the question—she must not be the first guest to get confused at this point. “To the Hotel Erotique, of course,” he said with a carefree smile. “It’s just a short flight away.”

“How short?”

“Once we’re in the air, thirty minutes.”

“So it’s . . . on an island?”

He nodded easily over his shoulder as they approached the plane, then bent to stow her luggage in an open compartment, which she noticed was empty but for hers. Well, that much was good. She didn’t want companions on this flight—people going there for sex who also thought she was going there for sex. Yuck.

“A private island between the Keys and the Bahamas,” Gabe clarified. “Self-contained. The whole staff lives on the island full-time.”

Wow. A private jet and staff accommodations. She was starting to get why this place was so high priced—even if a large portion of the fees did go to executing sex fantasies.

“We’ll have you soaking up the sun in an hour or two,” Gabe said with a wink that made the juncture of her thighs tingle. Just a little. Because of all the thoughts and worries and concerns about sex surrounding this trip, she supposed. Even if she wasn’t partaking, the whole concept made it difficult not to have sex on the brain. And Gabe was cute. Tan. Well built. “Then, after you get a chance to unwind, you’ll meet with your guide over dinner.”

Her guide. She’d read about that in the folder of information they’d sent her. Each guest was assigned a guide to orchestrate his or her “experience” at the Hotel Erotique. The guide was always the same gender as the guest and served not only as confidant and advisor, but also analyzed the guest to design his or her sexual fantasies. Of course, as Jenna had read more of the resort’s literature, it had sounded less like a place where you lived out your fantasies and more like a place that came up with the fantasies for you. Which seemed, to her, even weirder. But each guide also possessed a degree in psychology, so maybe it made sense to have someone like that to sort of . . . direct one’s casual sex.

Geez—casual sex. Gabe still thought she was here for that. Upon remembering, she found herself mumbling a noncommittal, “Oh, okay,” and again feeling embarrassed.

“You’ll love Mariel,” he went on as he followed Jenna up the small jet’s stairway. “She’s great. Really easy to talk to.” She’d already been given the name of her guide, and apparently so had Gabe.

“Wow, seems you’re in the know about everything. Next, I’ll find out you’re the pilot,” she teased, stepping onto the luxurious plane.

“Co-pilot,” he said with a shrug, and she turned to him in surprise. Was he kidding? “Really,” he added, as if reading her mind. “As soon as I get you a drink from the bar and get you buckled in, we’ll be ready for takeoff.”

A few minutes later, Jenna sat in a plush chair next to a window, peering out over aqua Caribbean waters, sipping a fruity drink Gabe had called “erotic rum punch,” and getting more and more nervous as she approached her final destination. Odd, she hadn’t been nervous before meeting Gabe and climbing aboard this plane—but somehow that had made it all real to her. Lord, she was going to the Hotel Erotique!

Only now she was regretting a few things, such as the online questionnaires she’d filled out at Mariel’s request. She wasn’t sure why she’d done it. Maybe she was curious to find out what her answers meant. Although some of the questions were about sex and fantasies, mostly they had been about less risqué subjects, from her childhood to her current hobbies, and seemed to point toward something like a personality profile.

She supposed she’d also feared if she told them up front she didn’t want the sex part of the prize that maybe, despite Kevin’s theory, they’d take it back. And by that time she’d made firm plans to go, even buying some new beachwear—slightly sexier than her usual wardrobe, just to kind of . . . fit in and not feel like a freak among the sex-seekers.

Now she wished she hadn’t completed the forms, nor been so honest on them. Not that she’d had all that much to share. Maybe that was part of the regret. Maybe she would appear to be a classic case of someone who needed help in the sex department, just like Kevin thought. When she’d been sitting at home, looking at her computer screen, it had felt like a game—something to do when she needed a break from work. Now it was feeling very real.

But stop worrying—this will be fine. Nothing had actually changed, after all. Tonight at what the brochure called her “orientation dinner,” she would tell Mariel her decision—not to partake in the sex—and surely the woman would understand, especially if she was as great as Gabe claimed. Then she’d perhaps, out of curiosity, ask Mariel what the analysis had revealed about her. Because who didn’t want to know stuff like that about themselves?

After that, she would embark on two full weeks of sun and relaxation. She was already looking forward to some of the spa treatments, and she’d packed a few books she’d been wanting to read. All this would turn out . . . okay. Better than okay, in fact. It was a free vacation, after all. In a tropical paradise. What more could a girl ask for?

Of course, maybe that had to do with the numerous “erotic rum punches” she’d consumed throughout the afternoon. But better to be a tiny bit intoxicated and relaxed than strung out and nervous.

She’d found that, in keeping with the pictures on the Internet, the hotel and grounds were immaculate—luxurious with just a hint of casual island flair that meshed nicely with the tall palm trees swaying in the breeze. After landing on a private airstrip, Gabe had loaded her baggage into a lavish golf-cart-for-the-rich-and-famous, complete with a polished wood dashboard and leather seats. Then he’d driven her up a meandering stone pathway lined with lush tropical foliage to the open-air lobby, where checking in had been surprisingly . . . normal, like at any other hotel.

Her deluxe suite, she soon discovered, came with an enormous bathroom and balcony, along with a spacious sitting area. And after unpacking, she’d put on a new bikini—leopard print, and a bit more scant than what she wore at home—and nervously made her way down to the pool. Because even if the lobby and room seemed normal, she’d decided that surely there’d be some heavy sexual vibes at the pool.

Yet as she stretched out on a lounge chair beneath the sun and started reading some more literature the desk clerk had given her, she learned that the main pool was a sex-free zone, one of many areas at the resort where guests could retreat during their stay to have an experience like they’d find at any ordinary beach destination.

She couldn’t have imagined more welcome news. And that was when she finally quit being nervous—delighted to learn she could indeed bask in the sun here every day without worrying about sexual . . . creepiness invading her space.

And to celebrate, she started indulging in more of the same drink she’d been served on the plane, even if it embarrassed her just slightly at first to order “erotic rum punch.” But her handsome poolside waiter, Josh, quickly put her at ease with his friendly manner, soon explaining that the punch was a trademark Hotel Erotique concoction.

Josh kept the rum flowing all afternoon, until Jenna was so relaxed she even napped a bit. Then went for a dip. When, for the first time, she grew brave enough to look around her at the other people at the pool—some couples, other singles—and had that same odd feeling as when she’d met Gabe: They think I’m here for sex. But then she remembered they were here for sex, and that suddenly seemed a more interesting thought. Walking up the steps out of the lagoon-type pool in her leopard print bikini, water sluicing from her body, she found herself wondering if anyone saw her and wanted to have sex with her.

That was when she realized she’d had too much rum punch—and she quickly tried to banish the thought. But it stayed with her—and was suddenly a lot easier to ponder under the influence of rum. It was easier to look at the attractive couple a few chairs away and wonder what their fantasies were. Easier to surreptitiously spy a hot blond surfer-looking guy stretched out under a small palm tree and wonder if he’d noticed her bikini, if anything about her meshed with the reasons he’d come here.

And when Josh delivered another drink, she couldn’t bring herself to turn it down. “But this is the last one,” she told him with a smile—maybe even a flirty one. Unintentionally, of course, because unlike everyone else at the Hotel Erotique, she wasn’t here for sex. And she didn’t want to send Josh the wrong message. Yet at the same time, she wondered if he might be admiring her body at all. Because, according to Shannon and past lovers, it was a good body. And one not normally this much on display.

“I mean it,” she added when Josh cast a doubtful grin.

“If you say so,” he’d replied teasingly. “But you know where I am if you change your mind.” The cute waiter had pointed to a thatch-covered tiki hut bar on the opposite side of the pool before departing with a wink that—just like talking with Gabe earlier—had made her a little wet.

Now, she’d just showered in the luxurious marble bathroom in her suite and was off to dinner with her guide. Following the map she’d been given upon her arrival, she took in the beach to her right, the sky turning blush-colored as the sun began its descent. And as she started across a long wooden boardwalk, sea oats sprouting up from the sand beneath, she spied a gazebo in the distance—which her trusty map marked as the spot for her orientation dinner.

She’d worn a pretty pink sundress with a low-cut halter neck—like the bathing suit, sexier than what she’d choose at home. Because she didn’t want Mariel to think turning down the sex part of her prize meant she was prim, or repressed, or anything else. She wanted Mariel to see her as a confident woman who had made the right decision for herself.

She walked slowly to ensure not losing her balance on her sexy, strappy cork wedges—and again couldn’t stop herself from thinking about sex. How many people were having sex right now somewhere on this island? She felt warm in her panties, imagining, wondering, as vague, shadowy images of sweaty bodies moving together wafted through her mind.

Damn—she’d finished her last rum punch nearly an hour ago, but she still felt it. Otherwise, she surely wouldn’t be thinking about sex so much—or suffering the response between her thighs.

But don’t worry—this really will be okay. Eating would help sober her. And after dinner, she could turn in early, then get up tomorrow and enjoy a lazy day on the beach.

The setting sun cast shadows over the interior of the gazebo as she approached, but she stepped boldly inside, ready to show Mariel how self-assured she was. Until she saw a completely scorching-hot guy sitting at a table for two—and flinched, halting in place on her wedge heels. “Um, sorry—wrong gazebo.”

His dark hair was thick but well kempt, contrasting slightly with the sexy stubble on his chin—and a slight smile made him even more handsome. Everything about him looked strong, confident, powerful—like she wished she really felt right now. “No—right gazebo, Jenna.”

Oh, shit—he knew her name. She stood up straighter, her spine going rigid. “I’m supposed to meet Mariel. And you’re . . . not her.”

His smile deepened—he looked amused at how flustered she appeared—and she couldn’t help noticing, even in the dim light, that he possessed deep gray eyes, sexy and captivating. He stood and walked around the small table—set for dinner, complete with ensconced candles and wineglasses—to pull out the chair on the other side. “Sit down,” he said, “and I’ll explain over some pinot grigio.” Her favorite wine. Had that been on a questionnaire somewhere?

She couldn’t figure out a graceful way to not sit down, even though her impulses immediately told her to run, to extract herself from this situation. But for heaven’s sake, calm down—he’s only an incredibly hot guy, not a demon from hell or anything.

Although she feared she was probably looking at him as if he were indeed Satan himself. Because she’d had a plan, and whatever it was he had to explain, this changed it. And suddenly everything felt different. Despite how calm she’d been through the afternoon, now she sensed sex all around her, in a pervasive way.

But then, wait, no—maybe it was only . . . him. His eyes. His body. He dripped sex. He made her tingle between her legs even amid her unaccountable fear. He looked like a guy who could steal a woman’s soul.

“Sit,” he urged her again. “I won’t bite. Promise.” Then he winked.

And there it was again, that undeniable pulse at the juncture of her thighs.

Jenna sat, but only because she didn’t know what else to do. And since she’d already acted totally weird in front of Mr. Soul-Stealing Hottie, she now experienced the urge to make him see what she’d wanted Mariel to see—a confident, in-control woman. With Mariel, it had been to prove she didn’t need the sexual offerings here—yet with this guy, it was simply to redeem herself.

After pushing in her chair, he returned to his own—which meant they were face-to-face again and it was time to meet his gaze. Her chest tightened as she forced herself to do so. She simply wasn’t accustomed to dealing with a man so attractive. In a world designed for sex. Where had her pleasant sense of intoxication gone? Its departure left her feeling vulnerable, for reasons she couldn’t understand.

“First,” he said, still smiling that sexy smile, “congratulations on winning our grand prize, and welcome to the Hotel Erotique. I hope you’re enjoying your stay so far.”

“Thank you, and yes, it’s lovely.” Get to the point already.

Before continuing, though, he paused to lift an open bottle from an ice bucket to pour two glasses of wine. “Second,” he finally went on, “I have some unfortunate news. Your guide, Mariel, has just been called away on a family emergency.”

Oh God. I know I should feel bad for Mariel, but right now, I’m more worried about me. “I’m . . . sorry to hear that. Nothing too serious, I hope,” she managed to add.

“Her father had a heart attack, and he’s expected to have a complete recovery, but she still needs to be with him.”

“Of course,” Jenna replied, nodding.

“And as luck would have it, the only other female guide on-site this week is already very overbooked. We have two more, but both are on vacation.”

“I see,” was all she could say. So what did that mean? Well, maybe she should simply go ahead and tell him her decision and this wouldn’t even matter since she didn’t actually need a guide. But before she could figure out how to broach the topic of sex, he went on.

“I know our literature promises a same-gender guide for each guest, but these are unusual circumstances, so I apologize and hope you won’t mind being stuck with me.” His enticing grin widened, making her thighs melt even as her jaw went slack.

“You,” she repeated numbly.

“Brent Powers,” he said, extending a hand across the table.

She forced herself to shake it. It was big. Strong.

“And I can assure you that, despite this being unusual, I’m committed to ensuring your stay with us exceeds your expectations,” Brent went on. “I’ve been with the Hotel Erotique for fifteen years and have spent ten of those as a guide. I have a BS in social psychology and a PhD in clinical sexology. I’m also part owner of the resort, so I hope all that will convince you you’re in safe hands.”

Clinical sexology, huh? And he even had a doctorate in it—which she supposed made him an official doctor of sex. It was strange to know she sat across from a man who was not only hot as hell but who also knew more about sex than she could possibly fathom.

But none of that mattered. What mattered was . . . “Actually, I was planning to tell Mariel that . . . I’d like to decline the, uh, sex portion of my prize. So I don’t really need a guide. I’d just like to enjoy the rest of what the resort has to offer.”

Across from her, Brent Powers blinked, looking truly surprised. “May I ask why?”

She sucked in her breath. This part would have been easier with a woman. Or even with a less-attractive man. She found she couldn’t quite meet his eyes as she spoke. “Well, I simply decided I’m not comfortable having sex with strangers. No offense—I’m sure it brings many people a lot of, um, pleasure—but I just don’t think it’s right for me.”

Only when he didn’t answer right away did she manage to lift her gaze from his white button-down shirt to his face—to see him appearing unduly concerned. So she rushed on. “Maybe I should have given the prize back—I’m sorry if that’s what you would have preferred. But I really could use a vacation, and when I discussed this with some friends, they suggested I simply enjoy the other aspects of the prize—like the pool, and the spa.” She decided to blame at least part of it on Shannon and Kevin since this was actually all their fault. “Is that okay? Or should I leave?”

At this, Brent Powers reached out to touch her hand where it rested on the table near her untouched glass of wine, and—yikes, the simple connection sizzled through her like electricity, skittering all the way up her arm. “Jenna, we would never ask you to leave. But I’d like to talk more about your decision.”

Oh boy. She finally took a drink of her wine. A big one. She needed it. “What’s to discuss?” she asked, trying for an easy, confident expression.

Brent lifted his wine for a sip, too—then smiled that killer smile again. “Well, to begin with, what we do here is more than ‘sex with strangers.’ ”

Oh? Could have fooled her.

He went on. “People come here for a lot of different reasons, and we welcome them all, but by and large, I see what we do here as being therapeutic.”

Hah! Was he serious? It was truly hard to hold in a sarcastic laugh, but she contained it somehow.

“There are many reasons people seek out new sexual experiences, and I’m sure you know we design a series of individualized fantasies based on what we’ve learned about each guest from our questionnaires. And we usually fine-tune it a bit after the guest arrives. If we saw our job as nothing more than supplying ‘sex with strangers,’ we wouldn’t go to so much trouble, nor would we have a full staff educated and trained to give our guests the optimal sexual encounters while helping them attain their sexual needs and, in some cases—like yours—resolve their sexual issues.”

She hadn’t thought about that, she supposed—they truly did seem to take great care in creating each person’s fantasies. Except . . . wait. Sexual issues? What was he talking about?

“If people just want casual sex, there are other resorts that offer that, with less-expensive price tags. When people come here, we know they desire more—we’re unique in the service we provide. And I’m not telling you this to change your opinion of the Hotel Erotique so much as to suggest you reconsider your decision.”

Okay, so it was official—he was trying to talk her into going through with the sex part. Which she really hadn’t expected. Kevin had been so sure they’d be happy to let her skip it—damn him.

“The thing is,” she began, “I don’t have sexual issues. I think you just said I do, but I don’t.” Maybe clarifying that would make Mr. Sexology back off.

Across from her, though, his eyelids lowered slightly, shading his gaze and making him look even more seductive. “Jenna, I’ve read your questionnaires, as well as the profile Mariel prepared after receiving them. I was under the impression you realized . . .”

“What?” she asked when he trailed off, her heart beating too fast.

He tilted his head, peering at her as if they shared a secret. “I know you haven’t had sex in more than a year,” he said, his voice so smoky he made even that sound alluring. “Although you characterize the sex you’ve had as ‘good,’ nothing in the way you described it was very convincing. And I know, too, about your parents’ view of sex—and also about your cousin.”

All the blood drained from Jenna’s face. Sexy voice or not, she couldn’t have been more dumbfounded. He, or Mariel, or both of them, had taken bits and pieces of information scattered throughout those online forms and cobbled them together in such a way that . . . oh God, they thought she had sex hang-ups! They thought that was why she’d come here, why she’d entered their stupid contest. If she’d felt vulnerable a few minutes ago, it was nothing compared to now.

Just then, a handsome, dark-skinned waiter entered the gazebo bearing a large tray, and Brent looked up. “Good evening, Rico.”

“Mr. Powers,” the waiter said with a nod, then also smiled politely in Jenna’s direction—which made her blush. This was one more person who thought she’d traveled here for sex—and now it was worse; now it was assumed she’d come here to solve sexual problems!

Rico lowered two dishes—fine china from the look of it—overtop the larger plates already on the table. Glancing down at hers, Jenna saw chicken cordon bleu and didn’t remember choosing it from a menu at any time, despite it being one of her favorites. Unless it had been on some questionnaire she couldn’t remember—she’d filled those out weeks ago.

By the time Rico departed, Jenna’s irritation finally superseded her nervousness with Mr. Hottie Sexologist and allowed her to look him squarely in the eye, ignoring her food. “You think you know a lot about me, don’t you?”

She was beginning to get the picture here. He not only thought he knew about her in sexual ways—he was also showing her he knew what she liked to eat, to drink. Were they meeting here because he’d somehow discerned that she found gazebos quaint and loved sunsets? She felt . . . utterly invaded.

“You told me a lot about you, Jenna,” he reminded her matter-of-factly. “In the questionnaires.”

“I told Mariel,” she corrected him.

“And I’ve apologized for not having another female guide available right now, but that’s not really what this is about.”

“What what is about?”

“Your anger.”

“I’m not angry,” she snapped—then realized that she, indeed, sounded pretty angry.

“We consider it a large part of our job to learn as much about you as we can, in order to provide the experience you need here. And you freely gave us the information necessary to do that,” he pointed out.

Which pissed her off even more, because he was right. She’d stu pidly filled out the forms, not thinking anyone was going to analyze them that closely—simply thinking it would be fun to find out if she was more type A or type B, more creative or analytical, that sort of thing. “True, I did. But you keep using the word ‘need,’ and I assure you I don’t need anything. If I needed it so badly, why would I be turning it down?”

“Because you’re afraid of it, Jenna,” he answered without missing a beat. “Which is perfectly understandable, considering your profile.”

She lowered her chin derisively. “So just what is it you think you learned about me? What is it you think I need so badly?”

Her sexy guide simply tilted his head, the move making him appear almost arrogant. “If you don’t know, then I can’t tell you, Jenna. You have to find out along the way.”

“Along what way?”

“By experiencing the sexual fantasies we’re going to create for you here over the next two weeks.”

“That’s another thing,” she said, her dander rising even more. “You and your brochures call them fantasies—yet you design them? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Sure it does,” he claimed. “We use only data you give us to design your fantasies. Many people tell us that what they experience here mirrors their own fantasies exactly. Others say we help them live out fantasies they weren’t bold enough to create in their own minds. Either way, we feel the term ‘fantasies’ is a good way to describe the experiences.”

Jenna simply gave her head a short shake. She couldn’t believe this. Getting out of the sex part had sounded so easy. But Brent Powers was making it pretty challenging—and upsetting her in the process.

Until she suddenly remembered: It didn’t matter what he said, or what he thought he knew, or even if some little part of her wondered if, or feared, he could be right—she didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to. So that’s what she told him. “I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to.”

“Of course you don’t,” he said smoothly. “But you will want to, Jenna.”

She sat up a bit straighter, unnerved. “What makes you so sure?”

“Because I’m going to make you want to.”

For a second she couldn’t breathe. Because she was pulsing in her panties again. Just from looking into his dark eyes and listening to his seductive voice and oversure words.

But then she pulled herself together—again. Damn it, this man possessed the ability to make her come undone at a glance. “I don’t think so,” she simply said.

And at that, a small smile formed on her guide’s face. “Tell you what,” he suggested. “How about you just eat dinner with me, and if I haven’t proven to you I’m right by the time it’s over, you win—you’re free to just enjoy the beach and the spa, and I won’t bother you with this again. How’s that sound? Fair?”

Frankly, it sounded unsettling. Since it meant he’d spend the next hour trying to talk her into something she absolutely wouldn’t, couldn’t do. But she was a big girl—she could just keep saying no as she had so far. And if she stormed out of the gazebo in a huff, it was going to make it difficult to stay here and have a relaxing, all-expenses-paid vacation. She could put up with the arrogant “sexologist” over dinner if it meant she could enjoy her vacation with his blessing. And besides, she was determined to convince him he didn’t know as much as he thought. And whatever needs he thought she had . . . well, he’d clearly overanalyzed her. “All right,” she finally said. “Fair.”

“Good,” he said with a short nod. Then he lifted his wineglass in a toast. “To . . . what I suspect will be an enlightening meal.”