Excerpt of Sweet Surrender by Lori Wilde

All work and no play makes Bianca a dull girl…or does it?

"From a marketing standpoint," Bianca began, shifting uncomfortably on the plush chaise lounge.

Whenever she moved she felt the silky material of the Catch Me if You Can lingerie glide across her skin like warm water. The sensation was wholly erotic and quite frankly, unsettling. Over the ephemeral garment, she wore a gray, knee-length pencil skirt and a buttoned-up white cotton blouse with sensible gray pumps and pearls. Her hair was swept up in a sleek French twist, giving her what she hoped was an air of up-and-coming young executive on the go. "You have to decide if you're selling celibacy or sex."

She still couldn't believe she was here. Bianca St. James—the woman who in high school was voted most likely to end up CEO of her own company, the woman who had written a mission statement for her life when she was a college freshman, the woman who'd spent the ensuing nine years throwing herself full tilt into her career—was sitting poolside with a near-naked man, a potent umbrella drink getting sweaty in her hand, at two o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon in Rio de Janeiro.

It was a scenario for disaster and, after the previous summer, Bianca had learned her lesson. No summer fun in the sun while she was working—although technically it was winter in Brazil.

They were on the penthouse rooftop of a downtown Rio office building that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean. The place was straight out of Condé Nast Traveler. Sleek and ultra-modern in design, the stark-white open-air interiors possessed clean, smooth lines, while at the same time overtly whispering money, money, money. The roof was no different. Behind them stood a blue-and-white-striped cabana. A bowl of exotic fruits lay on the table between them. The ocean breeze caressed her skin and scattered the scent of the city over them—coffee beans and coconut oil and sea foam and sugar cane.

The pool was a long rectangle, the turquoise water coolly inviting on the warm June day. White chaise longues with cushions to match the water were strategically positioned on the exotic white stone of the pool area. Numerous large potted palms in decorative clay pots added a bit of greenery. A beautiful, dark-haired woman in a pink string bikini manned the mahogany bar a few feet away. The white marble wall behind her was mirrored, reflecting back at them the gleaming array of liquors in their colorful bottles— golden whiskey, pink vodka, blue curaçao, deep-brown rum.

The swarthy man beside Bianca wore nothing more than a pair of darkly tinted sunglasses and swim trunks in a stunning color of azure that matched the peaceful sky overhead and accentuated his darkly tanned skin.

Although she'd met Senhor Santos several times before, it had always been in the buttoned-up offices of Stillman, Burke and Hollister, and Thomaz had been dressed in sleek Italian tailor-made suits that perfectly fitted his large muscular frame.

And she'd never been alone with him.

All traces of the civilized executive she thought she knew had disappeared, leaving nothing but pure, primal man. Here was the earthy playboy she'd heard so much about.

She'd never seen a face quite like this one. His angular cheekbones carved in sharp lines, he was dangerously handsome without a hint of softness. His hair was darker than an underground cavern and his body…oh, damn his body…she'd been avoiding looking at it ever since she'd taken the seat next to him. Trepidation bit at her with sharp teeth.

"In essence, Mr. Santos, you can't row your boat in two directions at once," Bianca went on, wondering if his eyes were open or closed on the other side of those expensive designer sunglasses.

She'd been here for a good five minutes and he hadn't once budged from his lounging position, or given so much as a hint that he was even aware she was sitting beside him. But she refused to let it show that he unnerved her.

"I cannot speak of business while you are so uncomfortable," Thomaz Santos said.

"I'm not uncomfortable," Bianca denied.

She crossed her legs and pressed her knees together tightly. The provocative lingerie moved with her, rubbing gently against her bottom. She'd never in her life been so aware of an undergarment and it threw her off-kilter. What was the thing made of? It felt sensual, luxurious. Better question, why had she agreed to Izzy's silly bet in the first place?

"Please, bonita, you are fooling no one but yourself. There is perspiration on your upper lip and you sit as if you have a steel rod thrust up your spine. Relax. Go pick out a swimsuit for yourself." He waved at the rack of skimpy swimsuits parked nearby. She assumed it was inventory from his business. "Cool off in the pool."

Bonita.

He'd just called her beautiful. It both pleased her and irritated her. "Mr. Santos," she said waspishly, "let's get something straight right up front."

He smiled wryly. "And what is that?"

"In my country calling me beautiful at a business meeting could be construed as sexual harassment." Not that this encounter was remotely like a business meeting. Dammit, she wished he'd take off those sunglasses so she could read what was going on in his eyes.

His smile deepened. "Ah, but thankfully we are not in your country. We are in Brazil and thus I am free to tell a beautiful woman that she is beautiful without threat of legal action."

"Please don't do that. I find it unsettling."

"Then you are an oddity." He shook his head as if he couldn't believe such a thing existed. "A woman who does not like to hear she is beautiful."

That made her feel all tingly. She should not be feeling tingly. She did not like feeling tingly. "Business is business, attractiveness should not enter into it."

Then he laughed as if she was the most amusing thing he'd encountered all week. "Attractiveness always enters into it."

For the first time since she'd entered his hedonistic domain, Thomaz sat up, swinging his tanned, muscular, polo-playing legs over the side of the chaise. She dropped her gaze, noticed how he sat casually, his austerely beautiful arms draped on his thighs, his big hands resting between his open knees.

He raised his designer sunglasses onto his forehead, revealing lustrous ebony eyes fringed with dark, heavy lashes. He cast a long, lingering glance over her body.

Bianca swallowed and nervously touched the tip of her tongue to the apex of her upper lip.

Do not look at his chest.

But her eyes had minds of their own and slowly took in from his face to his finely muscled chest and granite-solid stomach. Except for the slight fabric of his swim trunks, Thomaz was practically nude. She could almost feel the velvet of his flesh, the warmth and steel beneath. Could almost taste the tangy salt of his skin. Vitality vibrated off him, projecting like heat rays off the sun.

Her entire body broke out in a sweat and she was inflamed. It's just the sun, she told herself, but she knew that was a bald-faced lie.

From the bar came the sound of samba music, a steady, seductive beat. Someone had switched on the satellite radio. Bianca's hips itched to sway in time to the drumming, but she primly resisted the urge.

"I am going for a swim," he said. "You'll have to join me if you want to continue discussing business. You can select a swimsuit and change in the cabana."

Thomaz levered himself off the chaise and with the elegant stroll of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, he sauntered down the steps of the pool.

He dove into the pool, swam for a minute, and then surfaced, treading water. His dark hair was plastered against his skull. "Come in, the water is fine."

Bianca hesitated, perched on the edge of her chaise. She didn't want to go swimming with him, but it appeared to be the only option if she was hoping to get any business done today. Reluctantly, she went over to the rack of colorful swimsuits and browsed through them. Ninety percent were far too skimpy—string bikinis and thongs and even pubikinis, heaven forbid. She hadn't waxed extensively enough for any of these contenders and besides, she'd never been a two-piece kind of gal. Didn't anyone in Brazil wear a one-piece? Okay, here was a slingshot, but that was still a bikini.

After much digging, she finally found a keyhole one-piece in vivid scarlet and brash orange. Not something she would have chosen. Bianca only swam for exercise and preferred a sensible maillot in a dark color, but this suit was the best she could do under the circumstances.

With her purse slung over her shoulder and the flimsy material in her hand, she stepped into the cabana to change, but just as she unzipped her skirt, she realized she was going to have to do something about the chastity belt. Fishing her phone from her purse, she simultaneously shimmied out of her skirt. She texted her friends with her thumb while she kicked off her pumps.

Going swimming. Expect to be turned off for thirty minutes. Cheers, B.

That ought to give her enough time to get this over with and get back into her clothes.

She finished undressing and put on the swimsuit. The keyhole was cut out right at her navel. Good thing she did her sit-ups regularly. Otherwise this thing would definitely not be happening.

"Here goes nothing," she muttered and wrapped a fluffy white beach towel around her waist.

Bianca stepped outside the cabana and noticed some-one—most probably the bartender—had moved their drinks poolside. She walked to the water's edge and dropped the towel on the cement beside the steps just before she got in.

"Ah." Thomaz gave her a knowing glance. "The keyhole. I am not surprised."

Irritation nudged her again. "What does that mean?"

"It's the most modest suit in that particular collection," he said.

"What is it? The Flaming Harlot collection?"

Thomaz laughed and moved closer. She was standing in five feet of water and found herself retreating up to the edge.

Bianca cleared her throat. Ridiculous, letting him get her on the run. She was taking command of the situation. "So, back to your ad campaign. You have to make a decision. Choose celibacy and market the garment as a modern-day chastity belt to men, or choose sex and market it to women as a bedroom toy."

His gaze flicked down the length of her legs, the smile on his lips smug. "We cannot do both?"

She shook her head. "It doesn't work that way. You need a focus."

His eyes were on hers now, cradling her in sharply focused study.

Bianca straightened her shoulders, trying to look totally capable and professional—very difficult to do in a keyhole swimsuit in a high-end swimming pool atop a penthouse. She wasn't about to let this man know how much his sexy masculinity unnerved her. So she stopped moving, stayed very still and stared calmly back at him. In his eyes she spied an amalgamation of amusement, brashness and desire. Her pulse pushed restlessly through her veins, but she managed to drag her gaze away from him.

"Have you tried out my product?" he asked in a husky voice.

"Um…I have." She decided not to tell him she'd worn his lingerie to the meeting.

"And what do you think?"

"It's…um…interesting."

A smirk danced at the corners of his wide mouth. "Damning with faint praise. So what is it for you? Chastity belt or a sex toy?"

"It's a business assignment, nothing more."

He shook his head and clicked his tongue. "There you go again, looking at the world from inside the confines of your box."

That made her mad.

"You know nothing about me. I've won awards for my out-of-the-box thinking. I'm an out-of-the-box-thinking creative wonder." She huffed.

"I'm trying to get to know you," he said mildly. "In a relaxed environment. Which is why I have a proposal for you."

He called this relaxing? Maybe to him. To her, it was like toeing a high wire stretched across the Grand Canyon. "What is that?"

"We work by day, but by night you spend your time with me relaxing."

Oh, no way, no how, dude. Shades of Richard all over again. "Relaxing isn't my style," she said curtly. "I work better under pressure."

"How can you be so sure? Have you ever tried working when you are relaxed?"

Uh, no, no, she hadn't. "This argument is going in circles."

"So, you too notice how ridiculous it is for you to argue with me." He swam even closer, invading her personal space.

He was making her lose her cool in a way no one ever had. He was handsome and charming and accustomed to getting his way—a wealthy playboy who expected women to fall at his feet. Well, he was in for a rude awakening if that's what he expected from her. To hide her nervousness, she reached for her drink positioned at the edge of the pool and feigned a sip.

"Is your drink not to your liking?"

"Huh?" She blinked, her thoughts fuzzy-edged and murky.

"Your glass is still full. I could have Maria make you another." He gestured toward the pink-bikinied barmaid who was wiping down the glistening chrome-and-glass bar with a white terrycloth towel.

"My drink is fine, I'm simply not accustomed to consuming alcohol so early in the day or during the week."

"You don't enjoy life until the weekend evenings?" He made a noise of disapproval.

"I work a lot."

"I can tell," he said, still with the disapproving tone.

"Where I come from, working a lot is considered an admirable thing."

"No wonder my lingerie is not selling well in your country. Your people have no time for pleasure and play."

"There's more to life than just having a good time," she snapped.

"How would you know? " he asked, "since by your own admission you do not make time to enjoy yourself."

"I enjoy my job. That's how I enjoy myself."

"Are you sure, bonita? Perhaps you work because you are lonely and doing tasks helps fill the empty space inside you." He fisted his right hand and used it to tap twice over his heart, the water rippling with his movements.

She wished he'd stop calling her beautiful. It was distracting. "We're getting off track here. I came to Rio to help you find a way to market your product in America."

"We are not off track. We are precisely on track. You cannot market me or my product until you understand me."

Bianca blew out her breath. She could feel the account— and her potential promotion—slipping through her fingers. "What are you saying?" she muttered in his native language.

"You may be able to speak Portuguese," he said, "but you do not possess a Brazilian soul."

Bianca scowled. "Of course not, I'm American."

"But your eyes, your hair, your features, they speak of your Brazilian heritage that apparently you aren't very familiar with. It is a shame."