SAMANTHA INSISTED on stepping off the elevator first, trapping Nick and the two men from hotel security behind her. With her hand firmly flattened against his chest, she scanned the hallway. Nick knew she was just doing her job by keeping him from disembarking until she was convinced the path was clear, but he couldn’t help grunting in frustration.
Even without a jolt of static electricity, her touch ignited an incendiary spark that he suspected would leave him with third-degree burns. Now was not the time for him even to think, much less fantasize, about a woman who’s entire history and personal background hadn’t been checked and double-checked. Thanks to his grandmothers, he was currently a hotter property than any man had a right to be. While he didn’t intend to let the attention go to his head, he also wouldn’t fall victim to some money-grubbing femme fatale.
Not that he had any reason to consider Samantha money-grubbing. But femme fatale? Oh, yeah. If she didn’t remove her hand in the next few seconds, he was going to die a particularly slow and painful death from testosterone overload.
“Well?” he prompted, causing her to swing around, startled. His body instantaneously recalled the sensation of pressing against her and a pleasant heat stirred low in his groin, shooting sparks of sexual awareness to the tips of his fingers. She’d removed her hat when they entered the hotel, and her hair, a dark-blond hue that reminded him of the butterscotch sauce he loved to drench his ice cream with, fairly begged to be combed through. By him. In bed. After a champagne seduction and mind-blowing sex.
Which, unfortunately for both of them, wasn’t going to happen.
“Deserted,” she announced, tearing her hand away.
“No one to attack me? That’s a switch.” He dug his hands into his pockets and shrugged. But despite the bluster of his complaint, he didn’t want to insult her again—or worse, sound conceited.
“Maybe you should recall all that pasta sauce,” she teased. “Put a big fat tomato on the label instead.”
He burrowed his fists deeper into his once carefully creased slacks. Amusement lit her eyes to the color of blue curaçao, a liqueur he could never refuse. “And sacrifice sales? Never. It’s a small price to pay.”
She shook her head. “Privacy comes with a big price tag in my book.”
One of the hotel security guards who’d joined them in the elevator cleared his throat. Surprisingly, Nick had completely forgotten their presence. He was too busy trying to figure out why now, in the safety of this deserted hall, he didn’t yet want Samantha Deveaux to return to her duties at the Superdome. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had intrigued him so completely, especially someone without a single tie to the business he’d devoted his adult life to. The little socializing he did was either with family or friends, all in the restaurant or food business and all dependent on his expertise and business acumen to guide their futures.
Despite that they had nothing in common, he couldn’t break the eye contact that held her still and kept him captive. She was like an infusion of fresh herbs in a dish laden with heavy cream. She not only added flavor to his morning, she lightened up the entire crazy experience. A glint shined from within her eyes, a sharp, focused gleam that reminded him of himself. At least, the self he was five or six years ago.
Lately, he reacted to the world with dour severity rather than with the relaxed, irreverent humor he’d once embraced—before he became Dominick LaRocca, the half-naked man on a pasta sauce label. Back when he was just Nick. The guy who hung out on Taylor Street. Who played stickball with the guys then flirted with the girls while they shared Italian Ices outside Mario’s Lemonade Stand.
The guard behind him coughed again.
Without turning, Nick stepped off the elevator and sent them away. “Please see that your staff keeps my room number private.”
Thus dismissed, the elevator door slid shut, followed by the mechanical whir of the descending cab.
“You want me to check out your room?” Samantha asked.
More than you know, he thought, marveling at this unexpected, invigorating attraction. She was not his type. For one, she spoke her mind whenever she wished. Women from his grandmothers to his cousin to his mother did exactly the same, without heed to his preference for feminine compliance and good old-fashioned peace and quiet. Second, she was too curvy. He preferred his women waiflike, willowy, even if they did threaten to break on any of the rare occasions where his passion flamed unchecked. Samantha Deveaux could clearly handle the unbridled, unhampered desire every man fantasized about.
“Actually, I thought I’d find Anita and determine when I could return to the Expo. You can coordinate the security plan before you leave.”
She laughed while following him down the hall. “After our little fiasco this morning, I don’t even know if I’ll be employed by this afternoon.”
“Tim seemed complimentary, when he thought I wasn’t listening.” He slid his card key into the gold box beside a double set of doors at the end of the hall.
She rewarded his covert eavesdropping with a sly smile. “Tim approved my hire, but he’s in charge of the Expo, not the Dome. Maybe he has a lot of pull and won’t let them fire me.”
The lock clicked softly and he pushed the door open. “Fire you? Because you saved me from a crazed mob?”
“That mob should never have formed in the first place.”
She dug her hands into her pockets, shuffling her feet, curling her bottom lip outward just enough to elicit exactly the correct amount of sympathy and guilt she obviously intended. Luckily for Nick, he’d dealt with more than enough scheming, conniving women in his lifetime to let her ploy work. And he’d thought her different from the women jumping onto the hood of his limousine or hiding in the mail cart at the office. Yet, here she was, attempting to play him for a sucker with her tiny little frown and averted eyes. He should be disgusted, even disappointed.
Instead, he couldn’t help but grin like a fool.
So she did want something after all. And for some reason completely at odds with logic or common sense, Nick couldn’t wait to find out what.
“You’re very good,” he said. “Very convincing. The little lip thing is a perfect touch. I suppose now is when I offer to make a call on your behalf? Demand your promotion? A raise?”
“That’s a bit much, but thanks. I have a better offer in mind.” Samantha stepped in front of him, casing the room as she walked. Windows lined the curved foyer, leading past a wet bar to a large room with a conference table, six chairs, two fax machines, an active laptop computer and stacks of papers and LaRocca Foods brochures and promotional materials. Behind the table, a sitting area—complete with twin recliners, an overstuffed couch, a coffee table bearing the remnants of a room-service breakfast and an entertainment center—occupied the largest part of the room.
“Nice digs.” She bit back asking if the door on the other side of the stored Murphy bed contained his bedroom or was just another exit into the hall. She’d already opened herself up to more than one sexual connotation this morning. Asking about his sleeping arrangements could prove unnecessary unless she convinced him to hire her as his private bodyguard.
“You don’t want a promotion, huh? Hmm, let me think.” He tossed his key onto the table and clicked the keyboard on his laptop, summoning the current stock-market statistics to flow across the bottom of the screen. “You did say this security job was temporary. Lay your proposal on the table, Samantha. I’m all ears.”
“You need personal security. That’s my gig.”
“I thought your boss was out of town.”
“He is. But we could still work out a mutually beneficial arrangement. You can hire me as your bodyguard—” she slipped around the entertainment center and glanced into the bathroom, which appeared to be empty “—at a discounted rate since I’m not yet fully licensed, and I’ll make sure no one gets close enough to rip your clothes off.”
“What’s in it for you?”
“A chance to get out of this god-awful uniform.”
He arched an eyebrow.
She frowned. She’d done it again. “You know what I meant.”
“Actually, Samantha, I don’t know. My grandmothers put more than my picture on that pasta label. In the small print, they listed my company position, the fact that I am still single and unattached, as well as a generous estimate of my net worth.”
She pressed her lips together to contain another grin at his expense. “What were they trying to do, marry you off?”
His grim expression told her she’d hit the nail on the head.
“You’re kidding!” And she thought her mother was bad, what with the gris-gris bags left on her doorstep and rows of candles lit at St. Louis Cathedral in hopes Samantha would finally find a man and settle down. “Very ingenious women, your grandmothers.” No hocus-pocus for them. Just good old-fashioned bribery. “They have a conduit to the general public, a product to sell—” she gestured toward him “—and at the same time, they increase sales by forty-six percent.”
“Forty-seven,” he corrected, not bothering to disguise his grouse as he tore off his striped tie and threw it on the couch.
“Forty-seven,” she conceded, her gaze riveted as he twisted open the buttons at his collar. When he stopped at his breastbone, she glanced away, disappointed. Suddenly, she wanted another peek at that full-size pasta label, live and in person. “I’d like to meet your grandmothers sometime. But let’s keep them away from my mother, okay? I don’t want them giving her any ideas.”
She motioned toward the bedroom door. He nodded his agreement to allow her search. No time like the present to demonstrate her diligence, especially when it would keep her from making a fool of herself by staring.
Flipping on the lights, she scanned the bedroom for unlawful entry and found none. The door to the outer hall, a secondary entrance so the room could be rented as a single when the suite was not in use, had an automatic lock. As far as she could tell, even the maid hadn’t yet arrived. The bed, a rumpled storm of sheets and pillows, appeared untouched by anyone but Nick.
A copy of Mario Puzo’s last hardcover lay on the nightstand, draped by a pair of thin gold, wire-rimmed glasses. Without much effort, she pictured the spectacles sitting on the bridge of Dominick’s regal Grecian nose as he lay in bed, propped up by the half-dozen silky shams that littered the bed in sensuous disarray. Bare-chested, with a sheet draping him from the waist down, just enough to make her wonder exactly what, if anything, he wore to sleep…
“I bet you would.”
She jumped at the sound of his voice. “Bet I would what?”
He leaned against the doorjamb, no less dressed than he was a moment ago, yet sinfully more sexy. “Want to meet my grandmothers?” He straightened, apparently misinterpreting the alarm on her face. “Do you see something out of place? Has someone been in my room?”
She shook her head, wondering if offering her services was a huge and horrible mistake. Here she thought she was immune to good-looking men like Dominick LaRocca. More like addicted, judging from her behavior so far. Standing in his bedroom, even one he’d rented for a few nights, heightened his presence. His cologne clung to the air. A damp towel, no doubt from his morning shower, was draped over a chair. A drawer in the dresser, not completely closed, cradled clothing that had once, or would soon, cling intimately to his skin.
“Everything looks fine.” She slipped past him, holding her breath to keep from inhaling his scent when her shoulder touched his. “Except the maid service runs slow around here. I’ll want to talk to hotel management about who they plan to send here and when.” She stood beside his computer and crossed her arms over her chest. She simply needed to assume a more professional demeanor. If she was going to be an effective bodyguard, she had to stop thinking about his body.
“That’s if I hire you,” he reminded her with a boyish, mischievous wink that managed to clip her steady heartbeat.
Oh, no. She wasn’t falling for his charm that easily.
“Why wouldn’t you hire me? Because I’m a woman?”
Thankfully, he sat in one of the overstuffed chairs opposite the couch instead of joining her beside the conference table. Negotiations had begun and she needed the distance to think clearly.
“Precisely because you’re a woman, and I don’t mean that in the way you think. Don’t you think your offer to protect me is a bit too convenient, in light of my circumstances?”
“You think I’m scheming to marry you?”
Sleep with you, maybe. Marry? Not in your wildest dreams, pal.
“A month ago, I’d expect to be slapped for such presumptuousness. But after being swarmed at the Expo, attacked at the airport and flashed by women wearing starched lace collars and prim business suits, nothing surprises me about the feminine gender anymore.”
She nodded, understanding his reluctance. She was, after all, single and not totally invulnerable to his combustible combination of roguish good looks, power and charm. Hell, she’d have to be dead to ignore this man’s Mediterranean magnetism. But despite her current need for a serious cash influx, his millions were probably a drop in the bucket compared to the return investment she’d receive from her father’s next film.
“Have you ever heard of Devlin Deveaux?” she asked.
He repeated the name a few times. “Hmm. Hollywood type? Won some sort of award.”
“His films have won twelve Golden Globes and he’s been nominated for two Oscars.”
“Oh, yes. The director. Does those action films. Why do you ask?”
“He’s my father.”
He stared at her blankly.
“He’s really rich,” she explained.
He still didn’t get it.
She spoke slowly. “I don’t need to marry for money.”
He nodded, but smirked, obviously not convinced. “You don’t have his money now, or you wouldn’t be working as a security guard.”
“True. I invested a hunk of cash in his next film and spent the rest moving back to Louisiana,” she explained, leaving out the little detail that investing in Devlin’s film was neither her idea nor her preference. Her father had once again found a way to keep her in his life through the money he owed her for her stunt work. “Once Honor Guard hits the theaters, I could end up with enough money to buy your company.”
Her bravado inspired his quirky grin—one she instantly discovered she liked. A lot.
“The film-going public can be fickle,” he pointed out.
“True again. But if this movie doesn’t make it, his next one will. The fact is, if I ever really needed to, I could ask my father for money. Or my mother. She’s very comfortable. I don’t need to sacrifice my freedom to live the high life, which, by the way, I don’t want to live. Been there, done that. My interest in you is purely professional. My goal is to be a bodyguard, not a temporary security guard or, God forbid, someone’s wife.”
Dominick leaned back in the chair and assessed her coolly. “And you think my hiring an inexperienced bodyguard is a wise choice?”
She couldn’t help admiring the pace of the man’s thinking. He was quick, but so was she. “That inexperience saved you today, didn’t it? I’ve been around celebrities all my life. I know what bodyguards do. I had my own bodyguard until I turned twenty-one. I’m a black belt in tae kwan do, I’m licensed to carry a concealed weapon and I have completed courses in threat assessment, security systems and access control.”
He balanced his elbows on the armrests of the chair, steepling his fingers as he considered her speech. “You have a fine résumé, but what if I don’t want a shadow wherever I go?”
“Better a shadow than potentially dangerous women.”
He nodded, clearly still deliberating as he dialed Anita’s cell phone and instructed her to find Tim Tousignant and tell him he needed Samantha until the Expo Hall was prepared for his rescheduled appearance at three o’clock. He then dialed room service and ordered fresh coffee.
He cupped his hand over the receiver. “Would you like anything?”
“Am I staying for lunch?”
“Your proposition has merits, but requires discussion.”
“Do they have jambalaya on the menu?”
He asked and assured her they did.
“It probably isn’t very good. Hotel food, you know.”
He asked and assured her it would be excellent.
“I’ll have the jambalaya.”
He grinned, ordered two servings of jambalaya, a pound of steamed crawfish and a large hunk of praline cheesecake with sweet bourbon sauce.
“That’s an awful lot of food for a man who just had breakfast.” Especially for a man who looked like a walking, breathing advertisement for the local health club.
“I love food. It’s not just business to me. Besides, that wasn’t my breakfast. Anita ordered in.”
Was Anita sharing his room? Samantha would have to know that, for entirely professional reasons, of course. “She’s your assistant?”
“Yes, and my first cousin. Her father and my father are brothers.”
He didn’t need to add that tidbit of information, but Samantha found herself relieved that he did. She’d finally started to like the guy and didn’t want it ruined by the knowledge that he slept with women he employed—as her father did, more times than she cared to count. When the last starlet started making stepmother noises, Samantha knew the time had come to split. She realized then that she’d spent her entire adulthood, not to mention a sizable chunk of her childhood, taking care of her father, catering to the genius director’s whims and putting her interests second. Unfortunately, she’d only escaped as far as actor Anthony Marks’s bed before he took his turn trampling her heart.
So now, she’d resolved to take care of strangers—on her own terms—and draw a salary at the same time. And she’d come home to New Orleans to reconnect with her mother and sister, both fiercely independent women that—with the exception of wanting her to find a man to settle down with—didn’t attempt to run her life in any significant way. Coming home had been easier than she’d ever imagined, thankfully, since she’d never figured out how to work long-distance relationships. And she’d done her share of trying.
Dominick pulled a file folder off the coffee table onto his lap, then motioned for her to take a seat on the couch. “I like to start my day early. Anita’s not a morning person, so she ordered her breakfast from here.”
She slid a company brochure off the conference table behind her and flipped open the trifolded, high-gloss color pamphlet. On the cover, a posed crowd of over thirty people ranging in age from toddler to octogenarian lifted their glasses in a hearty salute. She recognized Anita just a little left of center, standing beside a woman who, judging by the resemblance, had to be her mother. Dominick was just behind her, bracketed by two gray-haired ladies holding tight to each arm—undoubtedly, his grandmothers, ensuring he stayed put for the photograph. The caption identified the crowd as LaRocca Foods, LaRocca Family.
She flashed the picture at him. “You’ve given a whole new meaning to the word nepotism.”
“That’s not nepotism.” He picked up his own copy of the brochure from the corner of the table. “That’s a family business. It’s only nepotism if the family hired isn’t qualified.”
“Anita’s good?”
His chin protruded with an adorable smidgen of pride, as if he was more than partially responsible for Anita’s success. “The best. She loves this company almost as much as I do. Devotes her life to its success.”
“Then why is she just your assistant and not a vice president of something?”
The nerve she hit must have been pretty darned raw, from the way his green eyes darkened to nearly black, and his scowl prickled gooseflesh along the back of her neck.
“She’s in the position she’s best suited for. Fancy titles don’t mean anything.”
“Oh, really? Then why don’t you just call yourself a secretary? Or the maintenance guy?”
Nick’s smile returned. “Actually, I tried mailboy once, but the paper cuts were hell.”
Samantha sat back, shaking her head as the man effortlessly disarmed her indignation with unexpected humor. He was good. “I guess CEO does sound better, doesn’t it?”
“Definitely. Tell me, is it part of your services as a bodyguard to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong?”
“Only if it affects your safety.”
“Then let’s drop this subject. Anita isn’t likely to be a threat to my safety.”
She might be if you continue to undervalue her worth. For once, Samantha kept her comment to herself. She’d already skated on thin ice with him and she quickly remembered that she wasn’t his bodyguard—yet—and even if she were, he could send her packing without much cause.
“Sorry. I speak before I think way too often. It’s just…”
“…a lagniappe? That’s the word, isn’t it?”
His tease caught her completely off guard. Not only did he know the popular New Orleans term for “something extra,” but he considered her big mouth a bonus? One minute, he was all stern seriousness, the next he inspired a reluctant smile to tilt the corners of her mouth.
“Something like that. I’m not very familiar with the workings of close-knit families or family businesses. I have a lot to learn.”
“What about filmmaking for the Deveaux? Did you ever work for your father?”
She returned her gaze to the brochure, perusing the lengthy list of products, from pasta sauces to salad dressings, his company produced. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“You were an actress?”
An edge of distaste clung to his words, as if he eschewed the spotlight of celebrity as much as she did—which she honestly doubted. Men were men, after all. Most males she knew coveted the spotlight. Secretly lived for the sound of screaming fans and golden accolades. Even Dominick was currently mirrored in a life-size portrait across the street and on countless grocery aisles throughout the nation. “Small parts as a child, as an extra mostly. Then I did stunt work.”
“That’s very dangerous.”
She shrugged, feeling a tenuous pull in the shoulder she’d dislocated on the set of Blue Blood, the film where she’d also earned a moderate concussion and two broken ribs. “That was part of the thrill, I guess.”
“The thrill didn’t last?”
When her stomach growled, she tossed the brochure onto the table. She hadn’t eaten before work, and the enticing photos of steaming Italian delicacies had heightened her hunger. “Thrills rarely do.”
“Depends on the nature of the thrill, don’t you think?”
Suddenly, Samantha’s hunger wasn’t about food. His voice, already deep and throaty and hinting of that distinct Italian flavor that spiced his foods, dropped an octave and skirted on the edge of a whisper. Samantha’s polyester uniform suddenly felt heavy, hot and binding, but she’d be damned before she let him know that.
“The newness wears off,” she claimed, trying to stay on the topic of her former job as a stunt double, but succeeding in critiquing the sad progress of each and every relationship she’d ever found herself in. “Reality sets in. Fear comes into the picture and, bam, you’re…” Alone “…out of work.”
She glanced aside, careful to ignore the narrow assessment in his gaze.
“Being a bodyguard doesn’t scare you?” he asked.
“Not so long as you promise not to fall off a fifteen-story building and stay out of cars wired to blow up when they hit their mark.”
She flashed a smile meant to disarm his personal questions, but he deflected her attempt with a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head.
“I’ll do my best. I suppose personal security is safer than stunt work.”
“If the bodyguard is good and the subject is—” she knew better than to use the word compliant “—cooperative. The key to effective protection is threat assessment, followed by quick and decisive action. Combine that with collaboration with the subject, and a bodyguard has the easiest job on earth.”
“Cooperation, huh? That could be a problem.”
She snorted, not the least concerned that the sound was decidedly unattractive. With all the awareness crackling between them, she’d probably done herself a favor. “I’ve already factored that into my plan.”
“Have you?”
She’d tossed her hat on the bar when she’d entered, but only now ran her fingers through her hair, wincing at the tangled mess. Standing, she caught her reflection in a nearby mirror and tried to work some order into the ponytail that had fallen apart.
“It’s cool if you’re a control freak, so long as you realize you’ll have to throw some of that control my way to keep your privacy and safety intact.”
More resigned than satisfied, she loosened the clip dangling at the nape of her neck, smoothed her hair back into place, secured the barrette and swung around. “One of those marriage-and-money-hungry women might be the if-I-can’t-have-him-no-one-will types. Could get ugly.”
He grabbed a pen from the table and jotted some figures into the margins of a contract as they talked. “That’s your worst-case scenario?”
She laughed. “Nick, if you want worst-case scenarios, you’d better pour yourself a bourbon. I’ve got moviemaking in my blood. I can come up with some doozies.”
He scribbled his signature on the highlighted lines, then closed the folder and tossed it back on the table. Clearing his throat, he leaned back into the chair and considered her from head to toe, nodding almost imperceptibly, as if satisfied with what he saw.
“Let’s leave the fantasies to your father. My problem has escalated since I came to New Orleans.”
“You didn’t have problems in Chicago?”
“Back home, I know the turf and could take precautions. Here, I’m at a disadvantage. To add fuel to the fire, a few of the television newsmagazines picked up on the story of my grandmothers’ marriage plan before I left. No doubt their reporters are lurking, though, thankfully, the Expo was closed to the media today. Which is precisely why I planned my presentation for today.”
She leaned forward to retrieve the pen he’d tossed aside, along with a blank legal pad. “You mind?”
He shook his head. “I’m talking about a temporary assignment. The Expo ends on Sunday afternoon.”
“Two days?” A decent chunk of change at the going rate, nothing to scoff at even with a discount. She’d at least be able to pay the rent on the office without running to either of her parents for cash. She calculated her cost in the margin. “I’m available.”
“You’ll have to quit your security job.”
“Not exactly a problem.”
“And it’s not just the Expo I have to attend. I have several events around town—business meetings, dinners. A swamp tour with the president of our largest retailer. I’m not sure of the details. That’s Anita’s department.”
Samantha frowned while she listed the scenarios she’d face. “Crowds will make it tough, but it can be done. I’ll need your full itinerary, a phone and a place to work. I can put a plan together by this afternoon.”
“Good. But I need a bit more than just a short-term plan. I’d like to tone things down before I return to Chicago. Answer some of the burning questions about my love life so those desperate women will crawl back into the woodwork.”
He thought ahead. An admirable trait.
“Very smart. Make some kind of big splash here in New Orleans—employ the help of the media, even—make yourself old news by the time you go home. That’s actually quite brilliant. You sound like my father’s publicist.”
“Thank you. I think. But…” He leaned forward in his chair, braced his elbows on his knees and looked up at her with a glint in his eye.
“But?” she prompted.
He wet his lips. “I’ll need your help.”
Samantha folded one leg beneath her, ready to spring off the chair. Something in his eyes told her to beware. Something in the fullness of his lips and tilt of his half smile triggered alarms in the deepest part of her belly.
“That’s what you’ll be paying me for.”
“I’m not talking about hiring you as my bodyguard.”
“What are you talking about?”
He moved from the chair to the edge of the coffee table, relieved her of both pen and pad and locked her hand into his. The studied, serious demeanor of the man who ran an empire melted away to leave only a man with eyes the color of emeralds and lips that could kiss a woman into unconsciousness.
“I’m talking about you, Samantha Deveaux. About hiring you not as my bodyguard, but as my lover.”