“So, I should sleep with you because…” Samantha teased

Nick smoothed his palms along her cheeks, weaving his fingers into her fragrant hair, tilting her gaze to meet his. “Because I’m offering you one night, just for us.” He pressed his lips against her cheek. “One man.” He kissed her chin, then placed a tender peck on the tip of her nose. “One woman.” His hands trailed down her neck, dipping into the open collar of her robe. “One insatiable hunger.”

Samantha’s bold stare never left his. An expert negotiator, Nick appealed to what he knew she wanted most. “No strings, Sam. No expectations. Just one night of incredible pleasure.”

Her gaze narrowed as she slipped her hands between them to work the knot on his robe. “You left out the most important detail, Nick.”

She nuzzled close, grazing her lips over his bare chest. Instantly he knew what he’d forgotten. “Oh, you mean the part where I promise to make all your erotic fantasies come true?”

She stood so close, he could feel the thrill shimmy up her spine and light her eyes with hot fire.

“I didn’t forget, Samantha. There are just some things that go without saying….”

Dear Reader,

Food—now, there’s a topic I know and love. There’s nothing more sensual than experimenting with new tastes and textures…okay, almost nothing. But combining my love for all things delicious with all things sexy seemed perfect for my first book in Temptation’s new HEAT series!

When I finished writing Pure Chance (Temptation #814), I knew that Serena’s sister, Samantha, was too irreverent, too sassy, too primed for a man to deny her a story of her own. Besides, I love New Orleans far too much to abandon the city after only one book. But Sam was a tough heroine to find a match for because she’s so, well…tough.

Enter Dominick LaRocca. He’s gorgeous. He’s Italian. He’s wealthy, powerful and trying hard as hell to achieve his goals. Poor man. Poor, poor man. Just when the last thing he needs is a beautiful, headstrong woman, Samantha practically pushes her way into his life and turns his careful plans upside down.

Sound like fun? I think so. Please let me know if you agree. You can drop me a line at P.O. Box 270885, Tampa, FL 33688-0885, or visit my Web site at www.julieleto.com.

Salute!

Julie Elizabeth Leto

Insatiable
Julie Elizabeth Leto

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my wonderful aunts—Rose, Fae and Anita, women I admire and love with all my heart. I count myself incredibly lucky to have been born into a family that includes you.

And for “Nana” Caroline LaRocca and “Nanie” Velia Leto. You showed us all what love and family loyalty are all about. I miss you both.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

1

“COULDN’T YOU just eat him up?”

If Samantha Deveaux heard the question one more time this morning, she was going to puke. After two weeks on the job at Louisiana Superdome security, her assignment at the SuperMarketing Expo was testing her mettle most. Last week’s Wrestlemania had been a cakewalk next to this. At least there she’d known what to expect. Screaming. Cursing. A tussle or two. Just enough unpredictable rowdiness to keep her busy.

But since the Supermarketing Expo’s eight o’clock opening, she’d gone from rolling her eyes to groaning aloud at the increasingly bad puns. In four hours, every female in the Dome, and a few men for that matter, had strolled through the wide section of wall-less, corporate-sponsored booths and eventually stopped to make a comment in front of the display by LaRocca Foods. Their snickers and sly remarks relied on a combination of food imagery and naughty sexual innuendo.

All for the man looming across from her position at the end of the aisle. Not in person, fortunately, but on a gargantuan aluminum and enamel replica of LaRocca Food’s best-selling pasta sauce in a jar—the centerpiece of their display—complete with a huge label stretched across the middle.

In the label’s center, a bare-chested man, sketched with lifelike precision, glistened with sweat as he toiled in the middle of some Mediterranean olive field. He had all the classic features of a Sicilian supermodel: ebony hair worn long and windblown, eyes tinted the color of green Italian marble, and a chest, arms and legs that would put Michelangelo’s David to shame.

He’s hotter than his marinara sauce.

He can toss my pasta anytime.

And then the succinct, but equally charged, Mmm, mmm, good.

Samantha had seen his type many times before, but even her jaded attitude didn’t deter her gaze from roaming back to that label.

His eyes drew her. Not just because of their Kodachrome color, but because an elusive, alluring emotion charged his emerald gaze with power, intensity. The man had attitude. Presence. Even in still life, he demanded attention.

His grin, sly enough to be sultry and subtle enough to make her wonder what he was really thinking, said, “Eat this, I dare you. And if you do, I’ll give you an equally delicious reward.”

As if the man on the label had leaned down from his rustic field and murmured his challenge only to Samantha, a spark of awareness flared as a fantasy formed in her mind. A wicked tryst. A delicious dalliance. Her thighs clenched, instinctively attempting to sate the hot tickle deep inside her, an all-too-frequent reminder that she hadn’t had a man in her life for way too long. She closed her eyes for an instant, battling to block the flash of flesh and folly that haunted her lately. Day and night. Asleep or awake.

Unfortunately, her once-indistinct fantasy lover now had a face and a body—a face and a body she obviously couldn’t resist. She closed her eyes to block his image, reminding herself that he was nothing more than the artistic rendering of some obviously anatomically obsessed artist, but the sensual stream of heat continued its course upward, quivering in her belly then tightening her breasts. Her self-imposed celibacy, enforced for almost a year, had taken its toll. Sam pressed her lips together and fought the sensations—determined to stay focused. Success would be a valiant feat for a girl who’d discovered her sexuality way too early and only recently recognized that her wild past had actually been a blind search for love and acceptance.

And a few sinful dreams were tolerable as long as she managed to put herself back on track. With her attention on the neon-lit soda logo directly across from her, she began silently reciting the techniques she’d learned in her Internet course on how to disarm a crazed stalker.

Despite the repetition, the unspoken invitation from the man in the olive field still echoed loud and clear.

“So, it’s the new girl who rates the choice spot. Enjoying the view, Deveaux?”

Samantha’s attention snapped to her left and connected with Ruby Gumbert’s wry smile. The retired cop, barely ten years older than Samantha, viewed the world with a laid-back cynicism that Samantha couldn’t help admiring. They’d become fast friends, though Sam would never admit just how choice she considered her vantage point across from LaRocca Foods to be. She didn’t have to. The minute Ruby slid her Terminator-style sunglasses down her nose, she let out the most impressive catcall whistle Sam had ever heard from a woman.

“Who’d you sleep with to get this assignment?” Ruby asked.

“Who’d I sleep with?” Samantha counted back six months to her move from Hollywood, California, to her return to New Orleans. After adding another six months to account for brooding after her breakup with Anthony, Sam shook her head. No wonder the Pasta God had her on the sexual edge of insanity. In this entire year, she hadn’t slept with anyone but her older sister’s cat, Tabitha II. Unless she counted Maurice. Which she didn’t. He was Serena’s mixed-breed sheepdog, and unlike her Himalayan feline, he preferred the cool floor to the cozy bed.

“I figured I must have insulted someone,” Sam quipped. “Listening to all the oohs and ahs isn’t exactly my idea of an ideal workday.” Neither is swallowing my own oohs and ahs, thank you very much.

Samantha forced her gaze away from the damn label that inspired all the appreciative groans. Some women were such suckers for a pretty face. Even she had been once, dating some of Hollywood’s heartthrobs, even living with Anthony Marks, the biggest cardiac arrester of them all. Thanks to her father, famed action-flick director Devlin Deveaux, she’d met and mingled with every male celebrity ever chosen as People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, and more future coverboys than she cared to count.

And yet, this Pasta God had her fantasizing about new and interesting uses for extra virgin olive oil just from a pencil-drawn ad.

“If you want a lesson in bad pick-up lines,” Sam concluded, “you should trade places with me.” Sam watched another gaggle of suited, female conventioneers leer and snicker as they strolled by the sexy label. “If you want excitement and mayhem, unfortunately, this isn’t the place.”

Ruby’s smile curled with ageless wisdom. “Life ain’t like the movies, Deveaux. Mostly, this job is standing around, looking tough and politely asking people to follow the rules. Not to mention giving directions to the bathroom.”

Samantha stepped down from the box dais that provided a clear vantage of her area and wished she hadn’t made such a disparaging remark. She already strongly suspected that once again, this job wasn’t going to work out. She’d tried approximately four other professions in the past six months and nothing kept her interest. Except for becoming a personal bodyguard. That one really had her blood pumping. If only her brother-in-law, bodyguard Brandon Chance, would come home from his honeymoon with her sister so they could get to work. He’d already put her on the payroll, but with Brandon out of the country and no clients to serve, Sam had done little but earn some of her certifications and licenses and spend the petty cash on neat gadgets. She’d taken the security job at the Dome for two reasons—to pay back the money Brandon had originally budgeted for office rent and electricity and, at Brandon’s suggestion, to garner some experience.

So far, all she’d learned was that her attention span was shorter than even her second-grade tutor would have imagined. Oh, and that she could now be aroused by a pencil-drawn hottie on a pasta-jar label.

“I don’t mean to insult the job, Ruby. I know you love it. It’s just…”

Ruby pushed the sunglasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “Not what you expected. Never is, ’specially with your background. Pretty girl like you. Working in the movies, living the good life…”

“Define good,” Samantha interrupted, well aware that Ruby was teasing. They’d had this conversation over coffee at Café du Monde after last week’s Julio Iglesias concert. During her Hollywood childhood, Sam had always had food in her belly and a roof over her head—if take-out Chinese and trailers on movie lots counted. Her father had loved her in the way only a self-absorbed genius could, meaning that he showered her with affection whenever he didn’t have something more important to do.

A child thrust into an adult world from the age of five, Samantha was lucky to have escaped relatively unscathed—at least on the surface. She was only now starting to repair the damage to her heart. Her life in Hollywood could not be described as good unless the standards were incredibly shallow.

Ruby’s chuckle lacked humor. “Good always is a relative term. For today, this is a good job. No worries. Easy money. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?”

Samantha frowned, knowing full well what she’d encounter tomorrow—another day of watching conventioneers stuff food samples into their mouths while planning to cut out early and hit the bars on Bourbon Street. Samantha had wished this temporary job would work out, but she had her heart set on a career whose main benefit would be excitement. A little danger. Maybe she’d be lucky and there’d be a scuffle over the free tortilla chips or a grab for the Godiva. Anything to keep her from hijacking the next flight to Brazil so she could drag her brother-in-law back to the States.

“You sound like my mother,” Samantha said. “Sometimes I think she forgets that she stole ‘Tomorrow is another day’ from Scarlett. Unfortunately, I’ve always been a now and today kind of person. You’re less disappointed by life that way.”

“Are you? Less disappointed?” Ruby shook her head and grinned, her bob of raven hair not daring to move from where she’d gelled the strands in place. “Just wait until Signore Gorgeous makes his appearance. That ought to liven things up.”

Samantha swallowed her shock.

“The LaRocca model is coming here?”

“That’s the scoop. They’d be stupid to keep him under wraps. He’s the hottest draw I’ve seen in the Superdome since Mike Ditka coached the Saints.” Ruby lowered her shades. “Whoever he is, the man’s a god.”

Samantha felt inordinately annoyed she couldn’t argue that point without sounding like a big fat liar. Gorgeous men, real or in pictures, simply weren’t on her agenda anymore. She was done equating lust with love—with allowing her passions to triumph over cool thinking and common sense. She’d banked on coming home to Louisiana to find her focus. But since her job experience consisted of baby-sitting her father—a creative prodigy who could barely balance his checkbook—and stunt work that kept Devlin’s high-priced actors out of harm’s way, Sam wasn’t exactly a good candidate for the secretarial pool.

Her life had always been about adventure. Thrills. Discovery. When Devlin left her mother and sister in New Orleans after the divorce, Sam had followed, anxious even at five to see the world with her father, to live on location and mingle with the stars. She’d even appeared in a few films until she hit those awkward teenage years. By then, Sam had already begun to despise the celebrity spotlight. Becoming a stunt double had been the perfect profession—anonymous but exciting.

Then she’d been injured. She’d moved in with Anthony, followed a few months later by their heart-wrenching breakup. Returning to New Orleans after twenty-three years hadn’t been easy, but she’d come determined to heal all her wounds—physical and emotional—start over and reconnect with her family.

She’d made some headway. Her agility and strength were at one hundred percent. She no longer thought about Anthony every day or about the choices she should have made. The future beckoned.

Unfortunately, even romantic, outrageous New Orleans had held little promise by way of truly exciting career choices, until her sister married Brandon. Too bad the eldest Chance brother, in addition to his military background, had an insatiable sexual appetite that kept the couple on their honeymoon four weeks past their scheduled return date. Or maybe Sam should blame her sister. Surrendering to passion seemed to be a genetic trait.

Aw, hell. She couldn’t blame either of them. She’d never been one to deny her own desires—and she’d never even really been in love. Sam couldn’t begrudge her sister or Brandon their wedded bliss, but she still wished they’d be blissful at home.

In the meantime, Brandon had suggested that Sam pull some security gigs for hands-on learning. Nothing too risky, he’d insisted. Her stunt-work training gave her physical agility and mental preparedness, but the movie sets, speeding cars and fireball explosions had been controlled. Carefully planned and painfully executed. She needed to experience the unexpected—learn to trust her gut.

Somehow, she doubted the Supermarketing Expo fit the bill.

“Samantha, this is Mitchell. Respond please.”

Samantha unhooked the walkie-talkie from her belt and turned from the chatter and music echoing through the professionally designed booths and displays. “Deveaux, here.”

“The CEO of LaRocca Foods is on his way to his booth. He’s a major player. Tim’s with him. Stand tall.”

Samantha smirked. Another executive type headed toward his company’s booth and another opportunity for the security staff to play Secret Service to people whose importance hardly warranted professional protection. Except for the guys at the front assigned to allow entrance to paid conventioneers, the Expo was hardly high-risk. Now, if Mr. Model-licious did indeed plan an appearance as rumored, Sam might get her wish. Mass hysteria and raging female hormones could cause a very dangerous mix.

She knew that firsthand.

“Gotcha, boss.”

“And tell Gumbert to return to her position.”

Ruby slipped her glasses back onto her regal nose. “I guess the ogle-fest is over. Back to ice-cream land. How the heck do they expect me to stay on this diet when they keep handing me samples of mint chocolate chip? Still want to trade?”

Samantha shook her head. She had few weaknesses in the world, but one was definitely butter pecan ice cream, which she knew they were also serving at the booth near Ruby’s station.

“Fat chance.”

Ruby patted her flat tummy. “Fat is right. Have fun with the big shot.”

Samantha saluted then snapped the walkie-talkie back onto her belt, slipped her hands behind her back and waited for the corporate executive to rush by and ignore her diligence. She hated this job. She hated hating this job. So far, the only good thing to come of her move was being closer to her sister and mother—and again, the definition of good came into question.

Her sister, when not honeymooning in some South American country, was a trip in herself—and gave new meaning to the term unconventional. Her mother, a world-renowned medium and self-proclaimed New Orleans spirit guide, defied any and all definitions. But so far, Endora had been supportive of Samantha’s return, even when she’d taken this “rent-a-cop” deal to supplement her income instead of accepting Mommy’s proffered handout.

Which she wouldn’t need if her father hadn’t reinvested the money he owed her from her last job into his upcoming film. He’d named her as a producer and assumed she’d be thrilled. She could end up obscenely rich if the movie proved a hit. Too bad Sam didn’t care about vulgar wealth. She just wanted to be comfortable, stable and self-sufficient. A couple of months under her brother-in-law’s tutelage and she’d be a fully licensed, salary-earning bodyguard. She’d already obtained her concealed-weapon permit and had begun her coursework over the Internet. Now she needed some on-the-job training.

But four weeks after their first scheduled return date, Brandon and Serena were still sunning and loving on a beach in Rio de Janeiro. Never mind that Sam had bought and installed a state-of-the-art computer system. Never mind that she’d used next month’s office rent to invest in several tracking devices, night-vision goggles and the smallest communications mechanisms she’d ever seen. They’d be the best-outfitted outfit in the personal-protection game.

If they didn’t go out of business first. Okay, that was an overstatement. She’d only spent a couple thousand of the petty cash and next month’s office rent. But if she didn’t restore the treasury soon, she’d have to call Brandon and ask for more money—and admit she’d spent slightly more than he’d authorized.

A growing disturbance near the west entrance caught her eye, sending her senses to alert mode. Flanked by two security guards, a threesome of somber-faced suits made their way through the crowd. Sam recognized the first man as Tim Tousignant, the dynamic young executive at the helm of the massive Expo and the man who’d approved her assignment. Good-looking and driven, he impressed Sam with his desire to run any event with smooth precision. Not enough to accept his invitation to dinner, but Sam didn’t mix business with pleasure. Not anymore.

The woman on his left, a tall, dark beauty with luminous olive skin clutched a stack of presentation folders and barely contained a wry smile as she glanced at the growing crowd. She leaned nearer to the man in the center and said something she obviously thought was hilarious.

Nearly a head taller than the others, the CEO of LaRocca Foods obviously didn’t agree. He shot his companion a sharp look and muttered a few words that caused her laughter to die a quick death. He watched his feet and held his hand up to the growing number of followers in a gesture more like a “stop” sign than a wave.

Samantha’s skin prickled.

Lured by the presence of this reluctant Pied Piper, people left the other displays to follow the hulking executive and his burgeoning entourage toward Sam’s end of the aisle near the north exit. An electric buzz rippled through the Superdome until waves of convention goers, mostly female, rushed toward the five-hundred-square-foot area reserved by LaRocca Foods. Mitchell said the CEO, right? She glanced at the label again, then back at the man in the middle of the swarming horde.

Her heart skittered, but then she smiled. A few moments ago, the man’s incredible looks and intense gaze, captured on the pasta label, had affected her like a virulent potion. Now she had the perfect antidote—his obvious arrogance.

If he wasn’t the end-all, be-all of shameless self-promotion, she didn’t know who was. Mr. Chief Executive Officer, sans the top half of his pressed Italian suit, was indeed the sexy hunk-o-rama on his newest product.

Samantha started to laugh, but stopped when the security guards approached, their eyes wide as the swollen throng closed in. A few women squealed. Manicured hands reached across the guards, grabbing at the CEO who still walked, head down, until the mob stopped his progress.

“Oh, God, it’s him! Dominick LaRocca!” someone shrieked.

“You can dig in my field anytime, Pasta Man!”

“I’m hungry for more than sauce, hot stuff! Over here!”

For an instant, Sam thought she’d been transported onto Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras. A middle-aged woman in a silk blouse lifted her shirt and bra to the delight of every man within leering distance. The crowd, effectively incited, surged, pressing the small group of five to the wall. Sam jumped onto the dais to regain her fix on LaRocca and company.

Time to work.

She radioed for backup, then shouted at the two security guards ineffectively trying to hold the women back with drawn nightsticks. Folders scattered as the pretty olive-skinned woman twisted in front of her boss to put one more barrier between him and the tentacles of hungry hands. Sam lost sight of Tim altogether, but figured protecting the man at the center of the disturbance was priority one, especially since he was the one causing the melee.

She couldn’t wait for the guards to lead him closer to the exit. She tucked her hair under her cap and slipped into the crowd, diving low and pushing through the writhing mass until she reached her colleagues. They begged the women to stand aside, using minimal force despite the growing danger.

“I called for backup,” Samantha yelled before pressing between the ineffective wall they’d formed to keep the CEO from harm. “Keep them back!”

“One heck of a security plan you have here,” LaRocca growled.

She ignored him and grabbed his elbow.

“Follow me.”

“Wait. Where’s Anita?”

Samantha felt certain Anita would fare better once the object of these women’s desires was removed from the hall.

“She’ll be fine once you’re safe.”

“Wait!”

Undoubtedly used to calling the shots, he dodged her attempts to pull him out. Samantha knew better than to argue, especially when only about every third word could be heard over the fervent screaming, blatant offers of sex and even a marriage proposal or two, if you counted “marry me, marry me!” as a true invitation. Instead, Sam twisted around him and used her full body weight to shove him to the exit. The sheer velocity of her push sent the crowd fumbling and tripping over one another, allowing her the split second she needed to squeeze him through the heavy security door.

She slipped in behind him and immediately threw her back against the door to attempt to close and lock it.

“Which one are you, anyway?” she asked, annoyed. “George, John, Paul or Ringo?”

A growl tore from her throat as she met with resistance from the other side.

Sex-crazed bimbos! Desperate, man-stupid teenyboppers!

“Don’t be shy,” LaRocca said between pants. “Tell them what you really think.”

She’d tossed him into the hallway so forcefully, he’d hit the opposite wall with a grunt. The loosened knot in his tie had flipped over his collar and the left hip pocket of his jacket hung loose at his side. His nostrils flared as he gasped for breath, then he used the opposite wall to launch himself against the door.

Against her.

The contact cracked the air around them with a pop nearly inaudible with women screaming on the other side of the door. But the surge of static electricity burned Samantha from the outer layer of her skin straight through to her heart. She shook her head, trying to dispel the resonating tingle, and pressed her back to the door. She dug in with her powerful legs, legs now tangled between the Pasta God’s marble thighs. His scent was as crisp and clean as his starched white shirt, as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. The image of him in nothing but a fluffy white towel immediately sprang to mind.

“Did I say that out loud?” she asked, hoping like hell that he’d interpret the flush of her skin as natural exertion, even embarrassment at her mouthy tirade. She refused to look up in his face, though gazing straight into his chest wasn’t any less dangerous when she knew, thanks to the sauce label, exactly what his chest looked like bare.

“Loud and clear. But I’m not arguing. You’d think these women had never seen a man before.” He struggled to help her close the door, but hands and fingers, even an ankle or two stuck through the six inches of space between the steel barrier and quiet freedom. Over the noise from the other side, Sam finally heard the arrival of reinforcements.

“Back. Back. Move back!”

Hands and feet disappeared from the doorway, but the press from the other side remained constant, probably from the guards struggling to clear the doorway. They wouldn’t be safe until they closed the door, and her counterparts on the other side apparently had their hands full just blocking the exit.

Glancing down at her for approval, Dominick LaRocca took another deep breath. “On three.”

She nodded, bracing herself for further impact. The rush of adrenaline snapped her head up. Good Lord. He’s going to throw his weight against the door. Against me!

He counted, “One…”

His eyes mirrored the color of freshly crushed mint.

“Two…”

His jaw looked chiseled from flesh-toned granite.

“Three!”

Pressed Italian silk didn’t hide an erection worth a damn.

2

NICK THREW HIS FULL weight into shutting the door. In his mad rush, he trapped the sapphire-eyed security guard beneath him. The latch caught and a sensation not unlike an electric shock snapped all around him. Instantaneous stimulation surged through his blood and rushed straight to his groin.

He hadn’t expected the spitfire in uniform to have anything soft about her, anything luscious or feminine. He’d been wrong. Just the brief contact stirred the primal male urge he’d kept in careful check for so long—a self-restraint made especially difficult with women of various degrees of desirability making offers any sane man couldn’t refuse. Yet, as she pushed the deadbolt into place, the lush warmth of her curves hugged him straight through his jacket, shirt and tie, making him wish he could forget his responsibilities to his family. Just this once.

“Sorry.” He rolled aside, straightening his suit, trying to ignore that his skin tingled as if he’d just been struck by lightning. His grandmothers often mused that a thunderbolt would probably strike him dead before he met a woman who could stir him out of his rigid, business-and-family-first way of thinking.

For once, Rosalia LaRocca and Rafaela Durante might be wrong.

“I’m the one who should apologize.” Her eyes reflected blue like the sun-sparkling water of a swimming pool. On a scorching day. One hundred and ten degrees. In the shade. But before he drowned in her liquid irises, she turned aside, patting her slim waist as she checked the presence of her nightstick, walkie-talkie and keys. The moisture in Nick’s mouth evaporated.

“The Expo isn’t really prepared for mass hysteria,” she added, chastisement totally undisguised. “Don’t you have personal security?”

Her snippy tone reminded him of the reasons why he’d been without a lover for so long—why his body was primed for sexual games he couldn’t afford to play. Ever since his picture made it onto that label, women he’d never met had been offering to do things for him—to him—that even his ex-fiancée would consider depraved. He’d received naked snapshots in the mail, wrapped in lacy panties that had obviously been worn. Just last night, a woman in a bikini had ambushed them at the airport, throwing herself spread-eagle over the hood of his hired limousine.

His family had been hounding him to employ a bodyguard, but the last thing he needed was some goon in a dark suit following him around as if he were John Gotti or Al Capone. No thanks. He had enough trouble with Italian stereotypes without traveling with hired muscle.

“I’m a businessman, not a celebrity.”

“Care to tell that to the women on the other side of this door?” She turned and moved to undo the lock.

“No.” He rushed to grab her hand, stopping short when she smiled, winked and released the latch. He smoothed his palm over his hair, attempting a nonchalant recovery. Too bad there was nothing nonchalant about the wave of disappointment that rolled over him because he couldn’t touch her again. Ever.

Man, he had to put a stop to this hysteria soon. The barrage of willing women, coupled with his decision to neglect his personal life and personal needs, at least until the European distribution deal solidified LaRocca Food’s solvency, threatened to undo him.

And the adorable pucker on the security guard’s lips wasn’t helping one damn bit.

“That mob shouldn’t have happened,” he insisted, jabbing his finger at the door in an attempt to regain his trademark snarl.

She shrugged. “Shouldn’t have is one thing, but it did. What did you expect anyway? Your picture on that label is more provocative than most Playgirl centerfolds.”

Nick jammed his hand through his hair again, reminding himself that this woman’s haughtiness and her all-too-true observation were insufficient reasons to lose his temper. The label was provocative. He had the sales figures to prove it.

“That picture was not my doing.”

She crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one leg. The pose was disbelief and sassiness potently combined. “You are the CEO of that company, aren’t you?”

“CEO, but not chairman. Some decisions can be made without my knowledge. Or at least, they could before.”

“This isn’t just a little bit about your ego? All those women screaming? Tearing at your clothes?”

His eyebrows shot up. He wasn’t used to talking turkey with a stranger. “You don’t mince words, do you?” he asked.

“No point. I’m a call-’em-like-I-see-’em kind of gal.”

And he usually didn’t find that trait desirable.

Usually.

“Well, you’re seeing this one all wrong.”

His grandmothers, the joint chairwomen of the LaRocca board of directors, had schemed with marketing and production to come up with the new label with his picture on it, enhanced to make him some sort of romantic hero. Before he could fire the artist, sales skyrocketed. All the traditional leaders in the sauce business were still scrambling to catch up.

In the midst of a marketing coup, Nick had hoped this trip to New Orleans would allow him to recapture his once iron-hand grip on his personal life. But not only had his grandmothers seen fit to put his image on the label, they’d included some rather clever copy lamenting his single marital status and celebrating his estimated net worth.

He hadn’t known so many single women lived in the United States. Women in every demographic group had flooded the mailroom with offers of marriage. Eager brides congregated in the lobby of his headquarters on Chicago’s Walker Drive. It was only a matter of time before they set up camp at his Lake Shore condominium.

He’d come to New Orleans eager for a little peace and quiet, not to mention anonymity. The last thing he needed was another headstrong female in his life, even if she had just saved his hide from the desperate throng.

“I’m featured in that booth because ever since that damn label was introduced, without my knowledge,” he added a second time, “sales have gone up forty-seven percent in the past two weeks alone.”

“Ah, the bottom line,” she said with a nod. “I can understand that.”

Great. Another woman with dollar signs in her eyes. Wonderful. Too bad that insight didn’t diminish his growing fascination with the gently bowed, slightly glossy shape and texture of her lips.

“Is there a way out of here?” he demanded. “A private way?”

The security guard looked around to catch her bearings. He noticed that the gold tag on her shirt read “Deveaux.”

“Are you staying at the Hyatt next door?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then follow me. There’s a lower tunnel reserved for authorized personnel. It’ll lead you out the back and all we’ll have to do is cross a parking lot.”

She swept her hand forward then started toward a stairwell that would take them to ground level. Her step was light and trouble-free, saucy and sexy and dangerous as hell. Her hips rocked with a rhythm only she could hear—but Nick tuned in, despite his best efforts not to. Queen during their hey-day. Joan Jett and Pat Benatar jamming with the Bangles.

He moistened his lips, wondering if he’d ever met a woman who could make him regret so much and want so much, so fast.

“Thank you for taking control out there,” he said, knowing he owed her some genuine gratitude and hoping a little more conversation would tamp down his growing physical interest. He reminded himself that she had a sharp tongue and decisive opinions—two strikes for any woman he wasn’t related to by blood. As much as he’d tried, he couldn’t change the LaRocca women or their daughters. And as much as he loved them, he didn’t need another headstrong woman trying to lead him by the nose.

“The guards assigned to me didn’t seem to know what to do,” he added.

“Yeah, well, they’re guys,” she concluded quickly. “They probably figured too much force and they’d hurt someone.”

Nick chuckled. “I don’t doubt that you could do some serious damage if you wanted to.”

“Considering my height and weight, it takes a concerted effort for me to hurt someone.” She spoke brusquely, totally oblivious to the double meaning to his comment.

Or at least, he assumed she was oblivious. He wasn’t so sure when he caught her sharp glance and a fleeting grin. “Women in my field compensate with speed, agility and, well…brains.”

Not to mention soft curves, dark blond hair and bright blue eyes. The woman who’d saved him, he decided, was as close to lethal as strychnine.

“Have you been a security guard long?” Nick knew he shouldn’t have asked the question, shouldn’t have invited more conversation. The more she talked, the more he wanted to know.

“About two weeks,” she said, her voice softening as she admitted her inexperience. He never would have guessed she was a rookie. His fascination with her jumped a notch. “But this is just a temporary job. Until my boss gets back from his honeymoon.” She paused, biting her bottom lip before admitting, “I’m a protection specialist with No Chances Protection.” Her claim grew louder as she spoke, as if she was trying the label on for size.

“Protection specialist?” he asked.

“A bodyguard.”

After his brush with the screaming crowd, Nick couldn’t begrudge his savior her choice of occupation. In fact, he was having a damn hard time begrudging anything at the moment. Just walking behind her, watching the alluring swing of her hips, catching the light in those impressive blue eyes whenever she looked over her shoulder, did amazing things to his outlook. His cousin and assistant, Anita, had started calling him the ogre at least ten times a day. Right now, he felt like the prince who slew the ogre…all for the sake of a sexy blond princess.

And he didn’t appreciate the feeling one iota.

Everything about Miss Deveaux should have gone against his grain. She was tough. She spoke her mind. She took control and did what had to be done without regrets.

A fine combination for a lover, ordinarily, but a horrible mix when he couldn’t afford to extend an invitation to his bed unless it was attached to a marriage proposal. And though Miss Deveaux stirred his blood like a chef with a swift wooden spoon, this woman’s medley of sassy confidence was the last thing he wanted to deal with for a lifetime.

Nick knew his preferences for a bride—sweet, submissive, maybe a little shy—were about a century behind the times, but he’d yet to meet someone who inspired him to change.

And though he was the last heterosexual man on earth who wanted to get married, he couldn’t deny that very, very soon, he’d have little to no choice.

When his grandmothers decided last year that they wouldn’t retire and turn the company completely over to him until he settled down and started a family, he should have popped the question to the nearest single adult female and been done with it. Instead, he’d dug in his heels and refused to let them dictate his private life.

Only, his private life consisted of endless family obligations—weddings, baptisms, birthdays—an occasional jog down Lake Shore and, perhaps, a night out with his CFO and vice president of retail sales so they could discuss business under the guise of relaxation.

Their latest discussion was the conundrum his grandmothers had created with their declaration. If Rose and Fae died before he married, LaRocca Foods would be sold in pieces to various family members. The conglomerate he’d worked so hard to build would cease to exist. All the market power he’d amassed since he joined the company just out of college would be lost.

The LaRoccas and Durantes had never been wealthy before. Until he took over the business, they had struggled through two generations of barely making ends meet, of not sending children to college if they couldn’t win scholarships, of doubling up on living arrangements to make sure every mouth was fed. But when the family’s restaurant fell on hard times and his grandmothers started supplementing the family income by selling their pasta sauce from behind the register, it had been Nick’s idea to build a display case for the West Monroe Street entrance. He’d been the one to organize and offer mail order to tourists and, after completing his course of study at the University of Illinois, he’d personally pounded the pavement to introduce their products to grocery stores. And just seven years ago, he’d spearheaded the promotion campaign that pushed their private stock into the public marketplace for a premium price.

And all without putting his own picture on a single label.

Nick quickened his step to match Miss Deveaux’s momentum. “I can make it to my room alone, thank you. Just tell me which door leads to the stairwell.”

She shook her head, a few more strands of blond spilling out to brush her shoulders. “That’s not the way we do things in Louisiana,” she said proudly, adding a Creole lilt to her accent-free voice. “This is a Southern state, remember? Hospitality and all that.”

“Yes, well, I’m from Chicago. We do things just fine on our own. The last thing I need is another woman clamoring to hold my hand.”

She stopped her progression down the hall and impaled him with a look of utter disbelief. “I’ve met lots of people from Chicago and not one was downright rude. Excuse me for pointing out the obvious, but I did just save your hide. And I didn’t touch your hands in the process.”

He didn’t want to think about what she had touched. And how that touching had sent his pulse rate skyrocketing.

“You have my gratitude.” He reached for his wallet, but the widening of her azure eyes to the size of jar lids stopped him from offering money for her service. He pocketed his eelskin billfold. “If you could just point me to the right door?”

The sassy security guard with the name Deveaux stitched above her left breast—a rather pert, curvaceous breast—slid her cap off her head, releasing the full, bouncy tumble of her hair. She eyed him head to toe, a growing distaste skewing her bowed lips into an unattractive sneer.

“The blue door at the end of the hall.”

He nodded to her curtly—just to make sure she didn’t follow him—and proceeded in the direction she’d indicated. Insulting women hadn’t been a mainstay of his behavior until recently, when Nana Rose and Nana Fae schemed to make him the most eligible bachelor on the Fortune 500. With the gleeful help of his cousin, Anita, they’d successfully transformed him from a driven businessman into a cynical, overbearing slave driver. He had no right to take his frustration out on Miss Deveaux, but she had the unfortunate luck to be the nearest woman in range of his anger. He’d dictate a letter of commendation to her superiors as soon as he found Anita.

Yanking at the latch on the door she’d indicated, he turned his thoughts from the woman behind him to plotting how he could reschedule his appearance at the booth. He’d planned to glad-hand some of the industry’s largest chains into awarding his products more shelf space and additional end-cap promotions. He’d be damned if he’d abandon his short-term goals for the Expo just because his grandmothers intended to make him the Fabio of the grocery business.

As he walked across the threshold, a distinctly feminine squeal snapped up his head.

“It’s him! Marry me, Pasta Man!”

Nick glanced over his shoulder at the slowly closing blue door. She’d said “blue,” right? Yet he was now standing in the registration area of the Expo instead of a stairwell to his hotel. And one by one, recognition dawned on the faces of several women just a few feet away.

Here I go again.

SERVES HIM RIGHT.

From behind, Samantha watched LaRocca’s fists clench. His shoulders tightened. She could only imagine the look on his face—and the horror she pictured gave an extra curve to the smile bowing her mouth. Some men had to learn the hard way. Samantha Deveaux was not a woman to be dismissed. Someone might do it once. But twice? Not likely. Not anymore.

Disheveled and distraught, the women being escorted out of the Superdome struggled against the careful grasps of several annoyed security guards. As Sam figured, her co-workers had reached the main lobby to escort the rowdiest women out of the Expo Hall to cool off. She’d just stoked the flame by misleading the lion right back into the den.

She considered letting the blue door slam shut behind Dominick LaRocca, leaving him at the mercy of the hormonally charged females on the other side, but her duty to protect him intruded on her fun. Pushing the door open at the last possible minute, she allowed him to slip back into the hall before the crowd attacked again.

“Did I say blue?” she asked once the door slammed shut, sugar dripping from each syllable. “I meant gold. The gold door is the stairwell, the blue door leads to the lobby.” She pointed to each as she spoke, as if willing herself to remember facts she obviously knew perfectly well.

A storm swirled in his eyes, reminding her of a deadly waterspout in the gulf. “That was uncalled for,” he snapped, once again trying to straighten his tie and jacket despite that he looked as if he’d just…well, as if he’d just escaped a screaming crowd of crazed women clamoring for his bod.

“I beg to differ.” Samantha planted her fists on her hips. “I’d say it was completely called for. You were rude and I won’t be treated like a groupie. My job—in addition to saving your butt—is to escort you to safety. If you won’t let me do that job, then I can’t be responsible for the consequences.”

He stood straighter as he caught his breath, and Samantha suddenly found his height imposing. If it weren’t for the twinkle of amusement dancing in his green eyes, she might have backed down. “So you led me back into the ring? Revenge, quick and simple. That’s a concept I understand.”

She shook her head. “I don’t believe in revenge.” Samantha considered that claim for a minute and decided it wasn’t entirely truthful. It had been. Once. When she didn’t know better. “No, that’s not true. I do believe in revenge. In fact, I kind of dig it.”

“Dig it? How old are you?”

“Old enough to have a father who still says ‘dig it’ and ‘groovy.’ And for the record, it isn’t considered polite to ask a woman her age.”

“Well, aren’t you just New Orleans’ answer to Miss Manners. I suppose it’s the height of proper etiquette to throw a drowning man back into shark-infested waters?” He gestured toward the blue door, his expression incredulous.

She pursed her lips. “We could call it even.”

Despite his best efforts, a tiny grin broke through his scowl. “Very reasonable. Now, if you’d be so kind, Miss Deveaux, would you personally escort me to some quiet exit so I can return to my hotel?”

“Name’s Samantha. And I’d be delighted to see you safely out of the Dome, Mr. LaRocca.”

He hesitated, then thrust his hand forward in a businesslike pose. “Nick. Please.”

Sam glanced at his eyes first, then his hand, assessing the threat of touching him. The feel of him against her still resonated throughout the full length of her body, still lingered along the edges of her skin. But her newfound independence and determination wouldn’t allow her to refuse.

She concentrated all of her strength into giving him one hearty handshake, but was ill prepared for the electric shock that crackled between their palms.

“Ow!”

He pulled back, glanced at his hand and then at her.

“Sorry. I’m one of those people who conducts a lot of electricity,” she explained, trying to remember the last time she’d shocked someone on such a warm and humid day.

“I’ll just bet you do.” His comment was cryptic, but the deepened crease of two slashlike dimples told her he implied something sexual. Yet the fanciful glint disappeared quickly, leaving her to wonder if this man had just flirted with her or if her celibacy was finally driving her mad.

He gestured for her to lead the way, following a few steps behind when she opened the gold door across the hall, checked that the stairwell was empty and secure, then ushered him downstairs.

Leaving the Superdome without escort posed a greater threat now that a crowd had formed outside, so once they reached the lower level, Sam radioed for instructions. Tim Tousignant, the SuperMarketing Expo executive who’d also been caught in the crush, met them in the security office to ensure that Mr. LaRocca was indeed well and would return to give his presentation as soon as additional security measures were in place. Tim offered his personal limousine to deliver the Chicago food magnate back to his hotel, with Samantha as escort.

“I don’t think that’s necessary, Tim. The hotel is across the street,” Dominick reasoned.

Tim shook his head, his face pinched and his gaze insistent. “There’s a growing crowd out front. We’d just about calmed them down when something riled them again.” He checked his watch, missing the look Dominick shot to Samantha. “The hotel lobby will be busy this time of day. Samantha can escort you through the service entrance.” He turned his gaze directly on Sam. “See him safely to his room. I don’t want his safety jeopardized again.”

Samantha didn’t like Tim’s accusatory tone, but she bit back her sharp retort and nodded instead. She didn’t figure Tim for the sass-me-and-get-away-with-it type. Like it or not, she needed this job until she could find something better—or until her brother-in-law and sister returned from Rio.

“I’ll see to his safety.”

Dominick shook his head, obviously chafing under the protective orders. “Miss Deveaux has been very effective, but I can manage on my own.”

“I’m afraid I have to insist,” Tim said, his tone conciliatory yet firm. “It won’t be good business for the Expo if one of our top exhibitors is accosted outside the Superdome.”

Nick eyed Samantha skeptically. Either he didn’t trust her to do her job—which she doubted since the man didn’t seem to be a fool—or he simply didn’t want her around. She didn’t blame him. As a bodyguard, resentment of her presence would be a common response. As nice and accommodating as her own childhood bodyguards had been, she’d disliked living under their watchful eyes from the day after her father’s first megahit made him a celebrity, until she turned twenty-one and fired them herself.

Dominick’s stare lasted a long moment, but then he nodded his acceptance of the inevitable. “Can you arrange tightened security by this afternoon?”

“I’ll get right on it,” Tim answered. “Samantha, radio Mitchell to send my driver around back. I apologize again, Mr. LaRocca. I had no idea…”

Dominick silenced the apology with a flattened palm. “Neither did I. Obviously, there’s no accounting for some women’s taste.”

Self-deprecating humor looked good on him, Samantha decided, though if she hadn’t already spent it, she’d bet next month’s rent that he didn’t employ such self-mockery often. Still, Dominick LaRocca seemed an interesting mix of contradictions. Gorgeous men like him didn’t usually come in multidimensional models, at least not in her experience. Maybe there was more to him than met the eye.

Though the part that met the eye was pretty damn appealing.

While Dominick flipped open his cell phone to call his assistant before they left, Tim pulled her aside.

“Good job, Samantha. I didn’t mean to jump on you. I just don’t want Mr. LaRocca to think we take security lightly.”

“No problem.” She glanced at Tim’s hand, still lingering on her elbow. He stepped back and shoved both hands into the pockets of his pressed and creased Armani slacks.

“Look, I know you took this job for the money. That’s cool,” Tim assured her, suddenly looking every inch the twenty-something marketing wunderkind he was. “Looks to me like Mr. LaRocca could use someone like your brother-in-law until this hype dies down.”

Despite her many jobs, Samantha had never mastered the art of interviewing. At the time, she’d second-guessed her decision to be completely up front with Tim, but she was now impressed by his supportive attitude and excellent memory. He was probably trying to stave off any bad publicity, but Samantha sensed this wasn’t the time for cynicism. “Thanks, Tim. But Brandon’s still out of the country.”

“If you say so.” Then he winked. “I just thought you were dying to get your feet wet in the protection game yourself. You dipped your toe in today and did damned good. Remember that.”

Tim nodded, then shook hands with Mr. LaRocca before jogging down the hall and back to work. Tim was a go-getter, all right. He’d moved up the corporate ladder by finding opportunities—not by waiting for them to find him, or worse, by waiting for some member of his family to hand him the brass ring. From the time her parents had divorced and she’d gone to California with her father, Sam had been programmed to put her life on hold until Devlin Deveaux found her focus for her. He’d cast her in her first film, guided her into stunt work, even had a major hand in her doomed relationship with Anthony.

For all intents and purposes, wasn’t she now transferring that dependence from her father to her brother-in-law? Waiting for him to direct her?

Sam could indeed learn something from the way Tim’s mind worked. Luckily, she was a quick study.

3

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.

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