Page 8 of Flirting With Disaster

Not that she didn’t like herself, but there was certainly room for improvement. She was a product of her upbringing—afraid to live on the edge, frightened of any loss of control. But where had that gotten her?

Jude fell back on the bed, a disreputable thought squeezing through her mind. She was thirty-eight with only one superficial relationship behind her. Her chance of securing anot

her relationship before her eggs dried up, was close to non-existent. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

She lifted her head just in time to see the sonogram of Evan’s child as he lay protected in the surrogate’s womb.

Could she do it?

She dropped her head and stared at the ceiling a second time. The Gigolo Beast. Now there were some impressive, non-committal genetics. Genetics that didn’t necessarily have to be attracted to her. They could be paid for. No messy emotions, no regrets.

Jude rolled to the side onto her elbow and dug through the welcome basket on her nightstand for a directory of services. Chocolates, hand cream, Vitamin B, an ice pack, a banana… Hangover cures? How strange. And a romance novel…Flirting With Sin by Naima Simone.

Sin…how apropos. This Simone chick was eerily psychic.

Jude glanced toward the mirror on the wall. Yes, she was flirting with sin, but she had no choice. She squinted to blur her reflection. She had potential, but more importantly, she had an understanding of the male psyche, and the workings of the human species’ innate need to procreate.

Yes, she’d have to work with her strengths. She sighed, as an errant curl sprang from what was left of her chignon. And hide her weaknesses.

Goodbye, staid, stuffy, Duffy.

Hello, sinner.

Four

“The devil has put a penalty on all things we enjoy in life. Either we suffer in health or we suffer in soul or we get fat.”

Albert Einstein

Thirty minutes later, Jude entered the lobby of Castle Alainn, secretly tugging at the seat of her too-tight trousers. She took a deep breath to settle her pounding pulse and reached for the comfort of the Almond Joy in her pocket.

She was a household joke. The people bustling around the lobby possibly knew of her pitiful circumstances, her miscalculations, her naivety in the face of relationships.

She was a casualty in the war of love.

“Hello there.”

A nasally, masculine voice pulled her from her tugging and self-degradation, and she looked up to find a hulking man standing before her. His neck had the girth of a much larger man, but he was only about five-foot-ten. Short and stocky with an expensive haircut and hardened features. And tan…he was quite tan. He wasn’t homely, but rather handsome, in a bronzed, professional wrestler type of way.

“Hello,” she managed. Men didn’t usually seek her out.

His gaze traversed her bosom first, then her face, then her French twist, which had taken twenty-nine of the thirty minutes she’d used to get ready. His smirk and shifty eyes were a bit disconcerting.

“I’m Richard Fantome, heir to Fantome Fitness.” He held out his beefy hand and she stared at it. She released the strap of her Monili Lambskin backpack and placed her hand in his.

His grip was strong and sweaty. “Nice to meet you, Jude Du…” Had he seen last night’s broadcast of the Spawn of Satan’s show? “Darling. Jude Darling.”

An unnaturally white, toothy smile covered half his tawny face.

“I saw you last night at the bar. I noticed your interest in me.” He kissed her hand.

Her brows shot up. Oh, how entertaining. A narcissist. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t notice you.”

He frowned, as she expected. “Well, I’ll have to fix that, then. The castle tour? Unless, of course, you’d rather we went our own way.”

Jude smiled as Mr. Fantome glanced in the mirror behind the lobby desk, straightened his hair, and flexed.

“That sounds intriguing.” She wrinkled her nose. “But I’m quite interested in the castle tour, thank you.”

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