What She Needs (4 page)

“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
over
analyzed 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.”

“I
read in your profile that you write historical biographies for a liv ing,” Brent said. Having always liked smart women, he found her occupation fascinating. “How does someone get into that line of work?”

Across the table, pretty Jenna Banks arched one brow and looked completely suspicious as she cut into her food. “You mean you don’t know? After all, you know what kind of wine I enjoy and how I like my chicken—I figured I had no secrets left.”

He couldn’t resist a grin. “I know a
lot
about you—but not everything. Not yet anyway.” He concluded with a wink, just before forking a thick chunk of filet mignon into his mouth.

Despite himself, he found her attractive—not only her brain, but also her body. A little obstinate, a little underconfident—but he could go a long way toward helping with those issues once she started seeing things his way. And though it might make him a pig, he found her annoyance at him rather cute.

“I have a passion for history,” she explained of her work then, suddenly sounding much
less
annoyed, “and a gift for storytelling. But I’m not especially good at making things up—I’m better at retelling the facts in an engaging way. Or that’s what the reviews say anyway.” She shrugged as she took a bite of chicken—yet he could see, that quickly, that when it came to her work, she
was
confident. And he instantly liked seeing the truly self-assured version of Jenna. It made him all the more determined to improve her life through what the Hotel Erotique could give her in the coming two weeks.

She didn’t get it, of course. She honestly didn’t see how negative sexual attitudes and events had shaped her into who she was, both socially and emotionally. And that was the challenging part for him.

Of course, whenever someone arrived with bigger problems than a guide felt could be solved here, the guest was counseled and sent home. But Jenna didn’t fit that profile. She wasn’t unhappy; she wasn’t ruled in any way by sex or lack of it. Yet—whereas most people arrived here either knowing they had sex issues to resolve or simply wanting some out-of-the-ordinary fun—Jenna was in denial about what she wanted, needed, deep down inside. He’d never been faced with a guest who
refused
the very sex they’d come here for.

But then again, she’d won a prize—not paid for it—so that changed the circumstances. Still, why had someone so in denial about her sexual hang-ups even entered the contest?

“I Googled you,” he admitted, watching as she cut into her baked potato. “Not as part of the job, but because I was curious about your career. Your books look interesting, and very successful.”

She smiled—still showing that confidence he liked in her so much. “
New York Times
bestseller,” she said with an appealing pride. “And I’m fortunate to be in that small sector of the population that truly loves its work.”

So was he, but this didn’t seem like the time to mention that. “Who have you written about?”

“A wide variety of people—Marie Antoinette, Thomas Jefferson, Anne Boleyn, Cleopatra, and I’m currently working on an anthology about some of the more famous pirates of the Golden Age. Basically, I write about people who are already pretty well-known, but I try to dig deeper than most biographies and find the really human, emotional sides of their stories.”

“It doesn’t surprise me at all,” he said, “to hear you find emotions compelling.”

“Something you got from my profile, I presume,” she replied dryly.

Her attitude made him chuckle. “True enough,” he admitted. “And it fits with everything else I know about you.”

She gave her head an irritated tilt, back to being annoyed. “So you can tease me about that, but you can’t
tell
me about it?”

He shrugged, biting into a dinner roll. If he told her everything he knew about her—about the way sex had shaped her psyche, her reactions to people, to men, the world—she wouldn’t believe him right now. She had to be shown. Changed. But he could tell her . . . a little. “Let’s just say people who place a high value on emotions are people who tend to feel things deeply themselves. Meaning that every good thing—or bad thing—that happens to you affects you perhaps a little more than it would most people.”

She simply blinked at him, still clearly just as aggravated. “You just told me I’m emotional—which I could have told you myself. That doesn’t get to the heart of the matter.”

“As I said, you need to be
shown
the heart of the matter, Jenna. And I promise if you let your guard down enough to experience what the Hotel Erotique has to offer, you won’t regret it.”

Across from him, she simply rolled her eyes. “Look, I know you think you’re very suave and persuasive, but I’m afraid it would take a hell of a lot more than that to make me . . . do what you want me to do here. Speaking of which,” she said, “dare I ask how someone gets into
your
line of work?”

He smiled. “It’s simple, really. I like sex.”

She was obviously waiting for him to expound upon that, and when he didn’t, she said, “That’s it? You like sex?
Lots
of people like sex.”

“But most of them don’t like it enough to get a PhD in the study of it and make it their life’s work. I like sex enough that, when I was young, I realized I wanted to be in an environment where I was surrounded by it, but where it was . . . treated like an important part of life. Then, later, I decided I wanted to help people experience sex to the fullest, so they could learn to love and revere sex as much as I do.”

“Revere,” she repeated. “That’s an interesting word to describe sex.” She took another sip of wine and he realized she might be getting slightly drunk. He took it as a cue to refill her glass. Her profile indicated that alcohol often relaxed her and helped release her inhibitions—and that was exactly what he needed to happen tonight.

Only . . . hell. It was a long leap between getting her to talk about sex and convincing her to indulge in the resort’s sensual offerings over the next two weeks. He’d simply had no idea she’d show up for dinner as anything but a compliant guest, ready to begin her fantasies. So he wasn’t entirely sure how to accomplish this. But one thing he knew was—her denial complicated everything, and when she did agree, he’d have to toss most of Mariel’s plans for her out the window and devise his own.

In the meantime, he needed to focus on the conversation here—it was all important. “You wouldn’t say sex is something you hold in reverence?” he asked.