California Royale by Deborah Smith Page B

down on a lounge chair for a nap.
    The other two massage therapists were busy with their clients, so Shea sat down in the reception area and idly waited for Chip Greeson to arrive. She was thumbing through a magazine and thinking about Duke Araiza when Duke’s deep, melodic voice interrupted her.
    “Massage me. Cover me in mud. I surrender.” He stood in the doorway, arms outstretched, a martyred expression on his face.
    Shea inhaled in soft, silent appreciation. Would the mere sight of him always make her feel as if she were floating? “Pardon me,” she said after a moment, “but I take no prisoners without appointments.”
    “I have one. I bartered for it. Chip Greeson’s.”
    She stood, eyeing him ruefully. Somehow she wasn’t the least bit surprised at this turn of events. “And what did you—”
    “Gold. Emeralds. Candy bars. Chip couldn’t resist.” Duke lowered his arms and hooked his thumbs over the elastic top of his sweatpants. He ambled toward her, his stride relaxed, the clingy pants revealing a universe of masculine delights. His eyes held a challenge. “I’ve been letting you simmer for the past two days. I had to force myself to leave you alone, and it’s made me tense. I need a mud bath and massage. So what do I do first?”
    Shea silently admitted that she was glad to see him, but she was through letting him have the upper hand. Duke Araiza would get very special treatment today. A little mild revenge would make her feel more in control.
    “First you go into the men’s locker room and take off all your clothes,” she told him in a polite, serious tone. Shea handed him a key to one of the lockers. “You’ll find a pair of one-size-fits-all shorts in your locker. You can wear those until I get you covered with mud, thenpull them off. Follow the signs to mud room D. I’ll be waiting there.”
    “Nice,” he said, tipping his head toward her. She wore white sneakers, tailored white shorts, and a green golf shirt with a small emblem of the estate’s coat of arms on the breast pocket. His eyes wandered over her. “I haven’t really seen your legs all the way up before. I thought running only produced such wonderful results in horses.”
    “Thanks. I like being compared to a horse.”
    “Great fetlocks. Great knees. Great—”
    “Your mud bath is waiting, sir.”
    Smiling, he strode off to the men’s locker room. Shea ran to mud room D, where everything had been made ready for Chip Greeson. The room was soothingly warm, and brass wall sconces provided low, relaxed lighting, A white claw-footed tub, half-filled with creamy, mineral-rich mud, sat in the middle of the tiled floor. Six copper pails packed with mud sat beside the tub.
    Shea stood there, waiting, hoping that she looked calmer than she felt. A minute later Duke appeared in the doorway. Her heart crept up under her collarbones and stayed there. Where were his shorts?
    He had wrapped a small white towel around his hips, and it barely covered him. The ends didn’t really meet; Duke held them together with one hand over his hip. The towel parted over his outstretched leg, revealing his thigh all the way to the hipbone.
    “There weren’t any shorts in my locker,” he said solemnly. “I’m not lying. Really.”
    Shea didn’t know how she managed to remain still and look undisturbed, but she credited the discipline to years of athletic pursuits. If she could push herself to run a fast mile, then she could deal calmly with Duke Araiza even though he was only wearing a hand towel.
    “Get in the tub, please,” she instructed.
    He walked across the room slowly, with the kind of confident bearing that told her he’d never been shy about his body. Shea looked straight at him, but refused to let her eyes wander into the towel’s vicinity. If anything moved underneath it and she saw it move, and Duke saw her see it move … the mood would definitely become more dangerous. She’d already gotten more danger than she’d