Champagne Rules by Susan Lyons

directions, just like he could have asked her for a hotel recommendation, but he didn’t want her to think he was anal. Especially because he really was.
    He shifted up, gave the car a little gas, and it surged forward as if it had wings. Was he crazy to have splurged and rented a ritzy black Porsche? At home he didn’t even own a car. Didn’t need one, living and working downtown, with the Bay Area Rapid Transit making it an easy ride to his mom’s place in Berkeley.
    The breeze felt good against his skin. A convertible did give you a great sense of freedom. He could almost forget the guilt that had plagued him since he’d left the office this afternoon. God, what a mess he was. Here he was, on his way to meet the sexiest woman alive, and all he could think about was his job. He’d better get a grip, or Suzanne would take one look at him and head straight in the other direction. But the thought of work lingered in his mind. What about her? She must have a job too. They’d never e-mailed about anything other than Crete, and sex. He shook his head to clear it. An erotic escapade, that’s what her ad had asked for, and promised. Jobs had no place in what they were doing.
    She’d told him to meet her at Spanish Banks. Kind of a sexy name. Did Banks imply caves? He couldn’t imagine she’d . . . Oh hell, if she was anything like she’d been on Crete, he could imagine Suzanne doing just about anything. But would he, conservative lawyer-guy, be up to the challenge?
    She’d said he should park in the last lot, then walk along the beach to the west, away from the city.
    Again, they would meet on a beach. He liked the symmetry. But this wasn’t a nude beach, thank God. Sure, he was in shape and women found him attractive, but he couldn’t imagine having the guts to strip off his clothes and walk, naked, toward lovely Suzanne. On Crete it had been by accident, not design. Could a planned meeting even come close? Maybe he should have settled for memories, and dynamite cyber sex. The road got narrower and the breeze saltier. Spanish Banks turned out to be a long beach lined with concession stands, volleyball nets and a series of parking lots. Lots of people around on this summer evening.
    He pulled into the last lot and found a spot. When he turned off the engine, his heart was pounding so hard he could barely breathe.
    How could he feel so nervous, when the scene around him was so wholesome? On the grass, a boy and his father played Frisbee with a golden retriever. A middle-aged couple cycled along a paved path and a pack of teenaged girls sped by on roller blades.
    People were wearing shorts or jeans. He was slightly overdressed, in his black jeans and new designer T-shirt, but he didn’t know where the evening would lead. He was aiming for casual, a little classy, versatile enough to go with whatever Suzanne had in mind.
    Suzanne. Everything was so different this time. They knew each other’s names. This wasn’t a magical Greek paradise but her hometown.
    Last night he’d come in his own hands, reading e-mail from her. And she’d done the same.
    He drew in a shaky breath. Jax Navarre had few qualms about meeting with CEOs of multibillion-dollar corporations, but the idea of walking down the beach toward Suzanne gave him a serious case of nerves.
    And yet, it turned him on.
    Dumping his leather sandals in the miniscule trunk of the car, he removed the single tiger lily he’d chosen. Fiery, passionate, exotic. Like the woman he’d bought it for. He walked across a strip of grass to the paved path that ran beside the beach, crossed it, and stepped down on the sand. The beach was a narrow strip punctuated with battered logs and rocky outcroppings. This sand was coarse compared to the fine white sand of Crete. Its grittiness abraded his soles and grains collected between his toes. It had been years since he’d walked barefoot in the sand, but it felt good.
    A couple of kids splashed and swam. To his right, across a