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WANTON
    Layla Gunn threw open the French doors and tried not to hyperventilate. The winter air nipped at her exposed skin beneath the terry cloth robe. She stepped forward, her heels rasping over the smooth concrete, and gripped the antique black railing.
    What am I doing here?
    She made another attempt to steady her breath, but that didn’t work. Nothing likely would because just being at this hotel, during New Year’s Eve, was insane. She focused her gaze out into the night. Oaks stretched before her, bowing against the dark sky. Farther out she could see the lights of New Orleans. The Beaudelaire Hotel was set back far from the main road, discouraging any unexpected foot traffic.
    She tried to take it in but all her mind could stick on was what am I doing here? A week ago she’d received an invitation to stay for the weekend. An exclusive event deemed the Den of Sin. She’d thought her sister had sent it as a joke. Hell, she’d needed laughter in her life, but when she called the phone number that came with an application and other official-looking documents, the woman on the other end sounded professional. The woman, Ms. Gibson, had been patient and dealt with her disbelief. Before Layla knew it she’d booked a night and had sent all the medical history they needed for her to participate in no-strings sex.
    Where your most intimate fantasies can come to life .
    That had been the promise in the invitation.
    This time when she inhaled, the scent of New Orleans soothed her. She could smell the water, the dormant honeysuckle that was trailed along the balcony, but there was something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. A familiar fragrance that always made her stomach flip. No. Not the scent of New Orleans. The scent of a man. She gasped and turned toward the door. That man stood in the shadows. She hadn’t even heard the door open.
    “Christopher Trevino?” Her voice was barely a whisper, but his gaze found her in the darkened room.
    She’d only left the side table’s lamp on and hadn’t dared to sit on the sea-sized bed with a wide white canopy for fear of looking too eager for sex. She didn’t want to look too posed either so she vetoed the idea of sitting on the Victorian couch detailed with white stripes. She’d barely managed to scrounge up the courage to shower and get undressed.
    But now…she tugged the belt on her robe tighter, feeling exposed and stupid for even being here. Curiosity got the better of her. She edged toward him to better see his face.
    Six years had passed since graduation. His jawline jutted out in the same sharp, masculine curve she remembered. His dark brows furrowed, but an emotion she couldn’t pinpoint flickered behind his hazel eyes. The top three buttons on his crisp blue shirt were unbuttoned, revealing the hint of hard muscle beneath it. Six years, and still he radiated a quiet strength that drew her gaze to him and only him.
    “Layla,” he said, his voice deep and husky. His tanned skin glowed beautifully in the dim light.
    Her nipples peaked beneath the robe, but then Layla remembered why she was there. A month ago, her only fantasy involved walking down the aisle to her boyfriend of two years. She’d thought Raphael would finally pop the question and that they’d spend the rest of their lives together.
    That fantasy had burned to cinders when she’d dropped by his office for a surprise, romantic picnic. Instead she’d found him with his pants around his ankles and his secretary spread-eagle on the desk.
    So a few weeks later, when she had held the invitation, she’d known this was her chance to forget another failed relationship, the brunt of betrayal. For one night she could feel sexy and wanton and wanted. She could go back to her life and face the pity if for one night a faceless stranger looked at her with lust. But seeing Chris, here…she hadn’t signed up for someone she’d call a long-lost friend.
    Heat suffused her cheeks. “I think they’ve