One Night for Love Read online

  ONE NIGHT FOR LOVE

  By Maggie Marr

  This book is dedicated to Paula Glasscock.

  Thank you for always being my friend.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  About This Series

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Maggie Marr

  An Excerpt from Hard Glamour

  Chapter One

  “I want it harder,” Prim said. A grunt came from behind her. “God, yes.” Warmth pulsed through her body and tingles shot from her spine and into her limbs. “Yes, deeper, deeper.” The warmth in her core puddled. Her muscles loosened. Her eyes closed. She soaked in the pleasure of a strong, hard touch. Stroked. Kneaded. Rubbed.

  This was paradise.

  “Lady got too much tension in her shoulder.” Layla’s hand, supple with oil, trailed along the fine vertebrae of Prim’s neck. “Muscles still knotted in here”—her deft fingers pulsed along Prim’s left shoulder—“even after six days of massage.”

  Air whooshed from Prim’s lungs. She opened her eyes and stared at the terra-cotta-tile floor beneath the massage table. What could she say? Even with the sun, surf, and sand, she couldn’t forget her huge mess of an existence in California, which she would return to tomorrow.

  “Lady’s lower back is still tight.”

  Layla’s fingertips fanned out and Prim felt the tension in her back melt. Relaxation oozed through her.

  “Lady needs to be with a man.”

  Prim jerked her head from the circular cushion. “A what?”

  “Head down.” Layla pressed on the back of Prim’s head. “A man. Lady needs to be with a man to release the tension in her body.”

  Prim resettled her forehead and cheeks against the cushion. Her sex life, or lack thereof, wasn’t something she really wished to discuss with her masseuse. Of course, Layla’s hands had been all over Prim’s body for the last six days. The morning massage was a high point of Prim’s existence at Mesquale. She’d spent the past six days trying to relax, trying to forget about her career disappointment, and trying to prepare for the unwanted reality she was about to return to.

  “Thought lady would find a friend by now,” Layla continued. “Every morning I walk up to house and think this is the morning pretty lady has no more tension here.” Layla’s thumb dug deep into the muscle of Prim’s left shoulder.

  “Oooow,” Prim whined. Layla’s thumb hurt so good.

  “Lady is pretty. She is young. She has beautiful body. Not married. No kids. She has private house, private beach at resort.” With each word, Layla rubbed her hands deeper into the muscles of Prim’s back. “She on holiday without man, but plenty of men at resort on holiday without a woman.”

  Prim closed her eyes. Layla was beginning to sound more and more like Prim’s mum in London.

  “So why, I ask, why has lady, while she here, not found friend to take care of all the tension in these muscles?” Layla pulled the heavy, heated towel up over Prim’s back and took her strong hands and stroked down Prim’s left leg.

  “God, yes,” Prim whispered between her teeth.

  “You not answer me.” Layla laughed. “Maybe lady not know answer.”

  “Men are pigs,” Prim said. There were two Prim wanted to gut right now.

  “You’re not having sex,” Layla said. “I feel it in your muscles. I see it in your joints. Too tight. No sex.”

  Prim’s sexual frustration bubbled through her body and replaced the relaxation that Layla’s hands had provided.

  “I just haven’t found anyone,” Prim said. “No one that I want to be with.”

  “Don’t have to keep the man, just have to use the man. Don’t keep the pig for a pet, just use it for what you need.”

  Prim smiled. She liked the way Layla thought.

  Layla tickled Prim’s right toes. “Done.”

  Prim sat up and pulled the sheet around her body.

  “Lady leave tomorrow?” Layla asked. She wiped her hands on a towel.

  Prim nodded. “Early. I return to work on Monday.”

  “Maybe you get lucky tonight. With all the massage, your muscles are ready for a man. The heat will explode for you. Maybe you find one at Devils and Angels?”

  Prim screwed up her face and shook her head no. “Not going.” She slid from the massage table. “Leaving early tomorrow morning, spending the night here.”

  Layla’s smile slipped from her face. “Lady must go.” Her gray hair was twisted in long coils around her face. The skin around her eyes was etched with tiny wrinkles, but Prim could neither tell her heritage nor, for certain, her age. She seemed timeless. “Someone you must meet. I feel it in your body.”

  Okay. A little too much voodoo with the massage. Prim reached for the envelope she’d prepared and handed it to Layla. “I can’t thank you enough for this week. You’ve made my body feel…” Prim pulled the sheet tighter around her torso. “Well, you’ve made my body feel better than it has in years.”

  “Eighteen months,” Layla said. “It’s been almost eighteen months since you’ve been with a man.”

  “How do you—?”

  “You still not believe what my fingers feel? I can feel it all in your muscles, in your bones. We carry the body through life, and life … it infiltrates all of the body.” Layla said the words as if they were obvious facts. “You go tonight. You meet someone, take away the tension these hands can’t reach.” Layla hefted her bag of massage oils over her shoulder. “You go.”

  “Not going,” Prim said again and followed Layla toward the door. “But thank you.”

  “You are going,” Layla said, a smile plastered to her face. “The man who will take the tension from you will be there. You will find him tonight.”

  Prim’s smile remained fixed to her face. Perhaps it was the language barrier. She’d had similar conversations with Layla over the course of the last six days, and instead of arguing or trying to explain, Prim had simply nodded and smiled. The last one was when Prim had emphatically denied that she would go snorkeling but then she … had?

  Layla’s smile remained on her lips as she descended the front stairs. She raised her hand and waved over her shoulder. “Lady have fun time tonight. More fun than the last eighteen months.”

  Prim closed the door behind Layla. She was not going to the party at the resort’s disco tonight. She’d already scheduled an early dinner and she had to pack. Her flight was leaving early for Los Angeles, and the car was scheduled to pick her up before sunrise. Prim walked to the open French doors. The surf pounded the shoreline. A breeze gently lifted her hair from her shoulders. Beautiful. Luxurious. Glorious. Relaxing.

  The muscle in her left shoulder tightened. How was that happening? Layla had worked on Prim’s body ninety minutes a day for six days. How could there still be tension in any part of her? Her hand clasped her shoulder and she pressed her fingertips deep into the muscles. The tension was because of the two pigs in Los Angeles. One a seller and one a buyer. With one stroke of a pen, they’d both upended the carefully crafted life Prim had worked toward.

  Ryan Murphy had ruined Prim’s future. He’d sold Metro Media to that o
ld codger of a man, William Rhodes. Why would a seventy-year-old man who’d made his money in steel suddenly have an interest in a media company? If only Ryan had told Prim he was considering the sale. If he’d given her even a little time, she could have found a way to buy Metro herself. Since she’d arrived at Metro, her ultimate goal had been to run the company—perhaps even own it. After years and years of hard work and sacrifice, that goal was now lost to her.

  Prim looked out at the sand of her private beach. She’d resigned when she discovered that Ryan intended to sell Metro Media. Eventually she’d forgiven him. His grief over Paloma had tainted his judgment. He’d not been rational. He’d come to Prim’s home and begged her to stay for three months as part of the transition team. She’d grudgingly agreed.

  Prim closed her eyes. A breath of fresh air tinged with salt entered her lungs. She opened her eyes and exhaled. Twelve hours of paradise remained. Twelve hours without the sharp changes that would inhabit her life for the next three months. The sheet that wrapped around her body dropped to the ground and Prim stepped out onto the deck, now naked and free.

  She’d needed this time to prepare herself. She’d needed to be alone to think and to process the inevitable changes she’d confront when she returned to work Monday. Prim stretched her arms up over her head and let the sun warm every inch of her skin. She hadn’t been naked on her beach the entire time she’d been at Mesquale. Not once. But today was the last day. Why not be wild? Why not be free? Why not go to the Devils and Angels party at the disco tonight? After six days of sun, surf, and sand, she deserved to be completely relaxed and totally free.

  Chapter Two

  At the door of the disco, Prim stopped. Music pounded from inside while purple and pink rays of light bounced across the floor and walls. What was she doing? What was she thinking? She didn’t need a man. She didn’t need sex. Why was she scrounging for a vacation hookup at an all-inclusive resort? Because her joints were tight, her shoulder ached, and it had been eighteen months since she’d been laid. Actually, eighteen months and twenty-one days.

  “Mask?” A woman wearing a red lace bra and panties held out a lovely black cat’s-eye mask toward Prim. “They’re required for the disco tonight.”

  Prim cocked her hip and rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. A mask? She didn’t want to wear a mask with purple feathers, but she placed it on her face and snapped the thin elastic band around the back of her head.

  “People are much wilder when they wear masks,” the girl said.

  Wilder? Prim hardly thought … but her hips felt looser and she swung her nearly bare backside as she walked into the disco. Yes, maybe. Maybe anonymity combined with the fact that she was leaving tomorrow before sunrise would help her to find someone, a hot, sexy sort of a man that might … might … might relieve her tension.

  “Mai tai?” A beautiful shirtless man with dark black skin stood before her, holding a tray filled with drinks.

  The muscles of his arms were thick, and his chest? Goodness, were all those muscles real? That beautiful skin under her fingertips … She longed to reach out and run her hand and then her tongue across his muscles.

  Heat flushed up her neck. Good God! What was she thinking?

  “Thank you.” She grabbed the cocktail in the tiki glass and whirled away from him before indulging her fantasy.

  Prim sipped her drink. What kind of voodoo spell had Layla’s magical hands cast upon her?

  *

  Tristan thrilled with the pursuit of the deal, but that thrill did not extend to attending a discotheque in a mask. The possible acquisition of Mesquale demanded that he have the full guest experience. His presence was unknown to the owners of the elite, high-end resort. He’d utilized a pseudonym for his suite. While here, he’d snorkeled, scuba dived, surfed, participated in yoga, attended the spa, and gotten the best damn massage of his life every morning from a woman who claimed to be a voodoo priestess.

  He bypassed the staff carrying trays of fruity drinks and went to the bar.

  “Whiskey, neat, please.”

  He slid his key card toward the bartender so she could swipe it. Cash didn’t change hands at Mesquale. His gaze wandered about the club. This acquisition would diversify his family’s portfolio; however, Tristan was uncertain that Mesquale was the type of place they wanted to own. Young, lithe bodies decorated the dance floor. Single, well-educated executives—most pulling down, at a minimum, mid to high six figures a year—inhabited the club. Mesquale was a semiprivate resort—you couldn’t even book a room without an extensive background check. This place was a way for the upper crust to be certain they played among the elite of the world. The idea of such exclusiveness did not appeal to him.

  A long drink of whiskey slid down his throat. Heat from the liquor trailed through him. He couldn’t seem to relax. Not the fault of Mesquale. His trip was short and intense, a way to assess a business. Monday would bring the adventure he’d sought for nearly a year.

  Another long, slow sip. His gaze locked on a woman. The heat that coiled in his belly wasn’t from the liquor. Wild hair, blue eyes that pierced even from behind her feathered mask, and large, tight breasts that sat high in a black leather bustier. His gaze traveled down her firm legs to the shiny black shoes with spiked heels that decorated her feet.

  Air clutched in Tristan’s chest. The muscle in his jaw flinched. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the woman on the other side of the dance floor. Her gaze flicked from the mass of dancing bodies in front of her and locked with his. Her full red lips dropped open the tiniest bit. The room and every person within the club fell away. An immediate and pulsing energy arced between them, a blue-hot bolt of desire to touch her, to kiss her, to wrap his arms around this woman and weave his fingers through that wild mass of brilliant black hair.

  A giant of a man wearing a biker vest and red horns walked off the dance floor and blocked Tristan’s view of the woman. The man passed by. The woman who had captivated Tristan was gone.

  He pressed forward through the mass of bodies, toward the spot where she’d stood. Glimpses of brown skin teased him as he wove through the nearly bare bodies that inhabited the club. Desire clutched him. He’d never been this mesmerized by a woman. On the far side of the club, she stood in front of a server who bore a tray of fruity drinks. She settled an empty drink onto the tray and took a fresh one. Her lips closed around the straw. His gaze slid over her body and she turned to him.

  Again, an all-consuming compulsion to wrap his arm around her waist, tilt her head back, and feast on those full lips. Her gaze slid across his body and left trails of heat along his skin. Tristan stepped forward, and no bodies between them, he stood close to her. The scents of vanilla and a something dark and rich like cinnamon filled him. He’d never expected to meet a woman at Mesquale. He was here for work, business, the two things that defined his life. And yet …

  A gasp caught on her lips. Her gaze flashed up to his.

  “Would you care to dance?” he asked.

  The briefest pause. Her tongue flicked over her lips, her breath short, gaze intense. She held out her hand to him.

  On the dance floor the rhythm grasped her. Heat flared through him with the shifting of her breasts and the shake of her hips. His hand clasped the leather on her waist and he turned her back to him. She pressed into him and skimmed her body down the front of him. She looked over her shoulder, a coy smile on her face.

  “You’re a good dancer,” she whispered.

  The intense beat stopped and smoothed into a slower tempo. He grasped her to him. Her curvy body melded to his, as though built to be held by him. He needed to peel away the tiny bit of black leather that she wore.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  Her fingertips wrapped around his and she followed him off the dance floor, through the mass of slow-dancing bodies.

  *

  Once they were inside Prim’s vacation beach house, she reached her hand toward his face, toward his mask. He gripped her w
rist, his hand a firm vise against her skin. A thrill pulsed through her with his touch.

  “Let’s not.” He turned her back toward him and wrapped his arm around her body.

  The thrill deepened into a thick want. In so much of her life, she was the boss, she was in control. The responsibility for Metro Media had become more and more hers as Ryan was consumed by his grief. When was the last time she’d surrendered herself to anyone? Surrendered control to anyone? To give this stranger control over her and her body and her pleasure caused a jolt of adrenaline to flood through Prim.

  His arm tightened around her, and through their clothes, his cock pressed against her backside. She shifted and slid her body against him. A growl escaped his throat. He lifted her hair from her neck and pressed his lips to her skin.

  Heat seared through her. Her mouth dropped open. Layla was oh so correct—eighteen months was too long. Her hand reached back and clasped the side of his leg. His hand skimmed the front of her. Slowly he pressed down, down, down, to where the edge of her black bustier met the lace of her panties. His fingertips grazed the top edge.

  A tiny moan escaped her lips. He clasped her wrist with one hand while his lips roamed her neck and the fingertips of his other hand pressed down along the front of her panties.

  “Please,” Prim whispered, her breath short and ragged.

  “Please what,” his rough voice whispered into her ear. The stubble on his chin roughened her earlobe. His fingertip slipped under the silk of her panties.

  Her breath caught in her chest. The pleasure of his touch cascaded through her body.

  “Please touch me.”

  His finger slipped into her curls. Another fingertip slid past her folds. Again her hips jerked and rolled, this time forward into the pressure of his hand. God, she wanted his touch. Her teeth clamped onto her bottom lip. A high-pitched noise filled with want tore from her lips. His fingertip pressed against her swollen nub, rolling and pressing as her hips went up and back. She wanted more, she needed more.