March’s menu

BARONESSA GELATERIA

in Boston’s North End

In addition to all our regular flavors of Italian gelato, this month we are featuring:

 Chocolate cake drizzled with hot caramel

With a rebellious lock of soft brown hair over his amber-flecked eyes, Flint Kingman had only to look at a woman to have her do his bidding. Until Gina Barone stepped onto his client list. Now he summoned her onto his turf and prepared for a battle of the sexes.

 A slice of baked Alaska

Gina Barone worked in a man’s world—and knew the male of the species. She would shed her icy persona and become the sultry she-devil in their pretend affair, just as Flint wanted. Then she would burn him.

 Flesh-burning three-alarm chili

A wet kiss, an erotic pose…Flint and Gina put on a good show for the paparazzi. But who was more surprised by the genuine heat rising from the pictures—the proper Bostonians, the Barone family…or the couple themselves?

Buon appetito!

Dear Reader,

In honor of International Women’s Day, March 8, celebrate romance, love and the accomplishments of women all over the world by reading six passionate, powerful and provocative new titles from Silhouette Desire.

New York Times bestselling author Sharon Sala leads the Desire lineup with Amber by Night (#1495). A shy librarian uses her alter ego to win her lover’s heart in a sizzling love story by this beloved MIRA and Intimate Moments author. Next, a pretend affair turns to true passion when a Barone heroine takes on the competition, in Sleeping with Her Rival (#1496) by Sheri WhiteFeather, the third title of the compelling DYNASTIES: THE BARONES saga.

A single mom shares a heated kiss with a stranger on New Year’s Eve and soon after reencounters him at work, in Renegade Millionaire (1497) by Kristi Gold. Mail-Order Prince in Her Bed (#1498) by Kathryn Jensen features an Italian nobleman who teaches an American ingenue the language of love, while a city girl and a rancher get together with the help of her elderly aunt, in The Cowboy Claims His Lady (#1499) by Meagan McKinney, the latest MATCHED IN MONTANA title. And a contractor searching for his secret son finds love in the arms of the boy’s adoptive mother, in Tangled Sheets, Tangled Lies (#1500) by brand-new author Julie Hogan, debuting in the Desire line.

Delight in all six of these sexy Silhouette Desire titles this month…and every month.

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Sleeping with Her Rival
Sheri Whitefeather

MILLS & BOON

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To Silhouette, for inviting me to do this project. To the other Dynasties authors and our editor, Mavis Allen, for being such a joy to work with. To Frank Cardinal, my primo dad, for introducing me to Italian delis, Italian words and Italian humor. To Rick Bundy, my very special second dad, for inspiring the classic Corvette and the Caine Mutiny in this book. To Joanne Rice, my cousin, and Flora and Mary Yacabucci, my great aunts, for their unwavering support.

And, finally, I would like to acknowledge two remarkable teenagers—

Brenna, my beautiful “new” daughter, and Nikki, my “old-soul” son.

I love you both.

SHERI WHITEFEATHER

lives in Southern California and enjoys ethnic dining, American Indian powwows and visiting art galleries and vintage clothing stores near the beach. Since her one true passion is writing, she is thrilled to be a part of the Silhouette Desire line. When she isn’t writing, she often reads until the wee hours of the morning.

Sheri is married to a Muscogee Creek silversmith. They have a son, a daughter and a trio of cats—domestic and wild. She loves to hear from her readers. You may write to her at: P.O. Box 17146, Anahaim, California 92817.

Meet the Barones of Boston—

an elite clan caught in a web of danger, deceit…and desire!

Who’s Who in

SLEEPING WITH HER RIVAL

Flint Kingman—His fiery, passionate nature clashes with his stoic part-Cherokee heritage. Still, with his dark good looks and rakish smile, he is the media’s darling….

Gina Barone—Her hot temper steams next to the cold shoulder she turns to everyone she views as corporate competition, including Flint Kingman. With her briefcase and her chignon, she is the ice princess….

Maria Barone—The baby of the family, she carries on all the traditions at the decades-old Baronessa Gelateria. And she carries on the family secrets, as well….

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

One

Gina Barone wasn’t in the mood to party, but she sipped a glass of chardonnay—praying it wouldn’t irritate her stomach—and worked her way through the charity mixer, feigning an I’m-in-control smile.

She knew it was important to be seen, to hold her head high, especially now. Gina was the vice president of marketing and public relations for Baronessa Gelati, a family-owned Italian ice cream empire—a company being shredded by the media.

Something Gina felt responsible for.

Moving through the crowd, she nodded to familiar faces. Although she’d come here to make her presence known, she thought it best to avoid lengthy conversations. A polite greeting was about all she could handle. And with that in mind, she would sample the food, sip a tiny bit of wine and then wait until an appropriate amount of time passed before she said her goodbyes and made a gracious exit.

“Gina?”

She stopped to acknowledge Morgan Chancellor, a business associate who flitted around the social scene like a butterfly, fluttering from one partygoer to the next.

“Oh, hello. You look lovely, Morgan. That’s a beautiful dress.”

“Why, thank you.” The other woman batted her lashes, then leaned in close. “Do you know who asked about you?”

Gina suspected plenty of people were talking about her, about the fiasco she’d arranged last month, the Valentine’s Day publicity event that had ended in disaster.

Baronessa had been launching a new flavor called passionfruit, offering a free tasting at their corporate headquarters. But pandemonium erupted when people tasted the gelato.

An unknown culprit had spiked the ice cream with a mouth-burning substance, which they’d soon discovered was habanero peppers—the hottest chilies in the world.

And worse yet, a friend of Gina’s who’d stopped by the event at her invitation had suffered from an attack of anaphylaxis, a serious and rapid allergic reaction to the peppers.

She’d nearly killed someone. Inadvertently, maybe, but the shame and the guilt were still hers to bear.

Gina gazed at Morgan, forcing herself to smile. “So, who asked about me?”

“Flint Kingman.”

Her smile cracked and fell. “He’s here?”

“Yes. He asked me to point you out.”

“Did he?” Gina glanced around the room. The crème de la crème of Boston society mingled freely, but somewhere, lurking amid black cocktail dresses and designer suits, was her newly acquired rival.

Anxious, she fingered the diamond-and-pearl choker around her neck, wishing she hadn’t worn it. Flint’s reputation strangled her like a noose.

The wonder boy. The renowned spin doctor. The prince of the PR world.

Her family expected her to work with him, to take his advice. Why couldn’t they allow her the dignity of repairing the media damage on her own? Why did they have to force Flint Kingman on her?

He’d left a slew of messages at the office, insisting she return his calls. So finally she’d summoned the strength to do just that. But their professional conversation had turned heated, and she’d told him to go to hell.

And now he was here.

“Would you mind pointing him out to me?” she asked Morgan.

“Certainly.” The redhead turned to glance over her shoulder, then frowned. “He was over there, with that group of men, but he’s gone now.”

Gina shrugged, hoping to appear calm and refined—a far cry from the turmoil churning inside.

“I’m sure he’ll catch up with me later,” she said, wondering if he’d attended this party just to intimidate her.

If he didn’t crawl out of the woodwork and introduce himself, then he would probably continue to spy on her from afar, making her ulcer act up. It was a nervous condition she hid from her family.

“If you’ll excuse me, Morgan, I’m going to check out the buffet.”

“Go right ahead. If I see Flint, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.” Gina headed to the buffet table to indulge in hors d’oeuvres, to nibble daintily on party foods, to pretend that she felt secure enough to eat in public. No way would she let Flint run her off, even if she wanted to dart out the door.

As she studied the festive spread, her stomach tightened. This wasn’t the bland diet her doctor recommended, but what choice did she have?

The shrimp dumplings would probably hit her digestive system like lead balls, but she placed them on her plate next to a scatter of crab-stuffed mushrooms and a small helping of artichoke dip.

Balancing her food and a full glass of wine, she searched for a sheltered spot. The posh hotel banquet room had been decorated for a cocktail gathering with a small grouping of tables and lots of standing room.

Gina snuggled up to a floor-to-ceiling window, set her drink on a nearby planter ledge and turned to gaze at the city. Rain fell from the sky, and lights twinkled like pinwheels, casting sparks in the brisk March air.

She stood, with her plate in hand, admiring the rain-dampened view. And then she heard a man speak her name.

The low, vodka-on-the-rocks voice crept up her spine and sent her heartbeat racing. She recognized Flint Kingman’s tone instantly.

Preparing to face him, she turned.

He gazed directly into her eyes, and she did her damnedest to maintain her composure.

She’d expected tall and handsome, but he was more than that. So much more.

In an Armani suit and Gucci loafers, he stood perfectly groomed, as cocky and debonair as his reputation. Yet beneath the Boston polish was an edge as hard as his name, as sharp and dangerous as the tip of a flint.

He exuded sexuality. Pure, raw, primal heat.

She steadied her plate with both hands to keep her food from spilling onto the floor. Men didn’t make her nervous. But this one did.

He didn’t speak; he just watched her through a pair of amber-flecked eyes.

“Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?” she said, her posture stiff, her fingers suddenly numb.

A cynical smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and a strand of chocolate-brown hair fell rebelliously across his forehead.

“Nice try. But you know exactly who I am.”

“Oh, forgive me. You must be that Bowie guy.”

He smoothed his hair into place, his mouth still set in a sardonic curl. “Flint. Bowie is a different kind of knife.”

And both would cut just as sharp, she thought, just as brutal.

Like a self-assured predator, he moved a little closer, just enough to put his pheromones between them. She took a deep breath, and the sore in her stomach ignited into a red-hot flame.

Damn her nerves, she thought. And damn him.

“I’ll stop by your office on Tuesday,” he said. “At two.”

“I’ll check my calendar and get back to you,” she countered, wishing she could dig through her purse for an antacid.

He shook his head. “Tuesday at two. This isn’t up for negotiation.”

Gina bristled, hating Flint Kingman and everything he represented. Would the stress ever end? The guilt? The professional humiliation? “Are you always this pushy?”

“I’m aggressive, not pushy.”

“You could have fooled me.”

She lifted her chin a notch, and Flint studied the stubborn gesture. Gina Barone was a feminine force to be reckoned with—a long, elegant body, a mass of wavy brown hair swept into a proper chignon and eyes the color of violets.

A cold shoulder and a hot temper. He’d heard she was an ice princess. A woman much too defensive. A woman who competed with men. And now she would be competing with him.

She gave him an annoyed look, and he glanced at her untouched hors d’oeuvres. “Don’t you like the food?”

“I haven’t had the chance to eat it.”

“Why? Because I interrupted you?” He reached out, snagged a mushroom off her plate and popped it into his mouth, knowing damn well his blatant behavior would rile her even further.

Those violet eyes turned a little violent, and he suspected she was contemplating a childish act, like flinging the rest of the mushrooms at him. He pictured them hitting his chest like crab-stuffed bullets. “I don’t have cooties, Miss Barone.”

“You don’t have any manners, either.”

“Of course I do.” He went after a dumpling this time, ate it with relish, then reached into his jacket for a monogrammed handkerchief and wiped his hands with casual elegance. This party was too damn prissy, he thought. And so was Gina Barone. Flint was sick to death of the superficial society in which he lived. He used to thrive on this world, but now it seemed like a lie.

Then again, why wouldn’t it? After all, he’d just uncovered a family secret, a skeleton in his closet that made his entire life seem like a lie.

Still eyeing him with disdain, Gina set her plate on the planter ledge. “Thanks to you, I lost my appetite.”

She didn’t have one to begin with, he thought. The trouble at Baronessa Gelati must be weighing heavily on her inexperienced shoulders. She’d never outfoxed a public scandal, particularly something of this magnitude.

Flint had, of course. Scandals were his specialty. But not family secrets. He couldn’t outfox the lie in which he’d been raised.

He dragged a hand through his hair and then realized that he’d zoned out, losing sight of his priority. Nothing, not even the turmoil in his life, should interfere with business.

Pulling himself into the moment, he stared at Gina.

Did she resent his take-charge attitude? Or did the truth upset her? The fact that he was more qualified for the job?

Truthfully, he didn’t care. He was damn good at what he did and he’d worked hard to prove his worth.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re superior.”

“Men are superior,” he responded, deliberately baiting her.

“And that’s why Adam ate the apple?” she asked. “Because he had brains?”

“What kind of question is that?”

She rolled her eyes. “A rhetorical one. Everyone knows Adam ate the apple because of Eve.”

Which meant what? That she thought the male brain hinged on what was behind his zipper? Or in Adam’s case, a fig leaf?

Flint assessed his companion. The lights from the city shimmered behind her, as white and bright as the diamond brooch on the front of her choker. It was an exceptional piece, but he would have preferred an unadorned view of her neck. She had smooth, touchable skin, kissed by the sun and boasting her Sicilian roots.

His gaze slipped slower, to the swell of her breasts. No matter how high a man’s IQ was, his brain did get scrambled now and then. Flint was no exception.

He lifted his gaze. “I’m not offended, Miss Barone.”

“About what?”

“About you thinking my brain is in my pants.”

“Well, you should be.”

“And you should offer me a shiny red apple.” He paused for effect. “I’ll take a big, juicy bite if you will.”

Gina glared at him.

Enjoying the game, he flashed a flirtatious smile. Sparring with her was actually kind of fun. And it certainly beat crying into his beer.

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to work with you,” she said.

He tilted his head, wondering what she would look like with her hair rioting around her face, framing her in untamed glory. “As I understand it, you don’t have a choice.”

“Don’t bet on it,” she quipped.

“I’ll see you on Tuesday. At two o’clock,” he reminded her before he walked away.

His lovely nemesis was quite a challenge. But he wasn’t worried about it. Sooner or later, she’d give in and let him fix the disaster in her life.

Even if he couldn’t fix his own.

Gina awakened with a start the following morning. She sat up and squinted, then hugged a pillow to her chest.

She’d actually dreamed about Flint Kingman.

And erotic dream. An illusion of mist and midnight, of his long, lean, muscled torso gleaming in the rain.

While she’d slept through a stormy night, he’d invaded her bedroom, her private sanctuary.

Gina reached for her robe and wrapped herself in terry cloth. Everything seemed different now. The cherry armoire and big brass bed. The hardwood floors and Turkish rugs.

With a deep breath, she turned and peered out the blinds. Thank God, it wasn’t raining anymore. She never wanted it to rain again. Not if it meant revisiting that half-naked image of Flint, his head tipped back, water running in rivulets down his stomach and into the waistband of slim black trousers.

Gina tightened her robe. She’d dreamed of him in the clothes he’d worn last night, only he’d been standing on the rooftop of the hotel, allowing her to undress him.

Damn that sexy smile of his. And damn that cocky attitude.

She had two days before their meeting, two days to arm herself with information. She knew virtually nothing about Flint, but she suspected he knew plenty about her.

He’d probably done his homework weeks ago, analyzing his opponent, charting her strengths and weaknesses, her successes, her failures.

Well, at least her dreams were her own. And so was her ulcer. She doubted Flint had pried into her medical records.

She crossed the living room, entered the kitchen and eyed the coffeepot. It sat on a bright, white counter, luring her with the temptation of a hard, strong dose of caffeine.

With a practical sigh, she poured herself a glass of milk instead, then reached for the phone.

Seated at the breakfast nook, she looked up Morgan Chancellor’s number, hoping the socialite was available. Morgan wasn’t a vicious gossip. She didn’t spread unholy rumors, but she seemed to know everybody’s business. And Gina intended to discuss Flint with someone willing to answer questions about him.

Morgan picked up on the fifth ring. Gina started a friendly conversation, asking the other woman if she’d enjoyed the charity mixer.

Morgan babbled for a while, and Gina pictured the redhead’s no-nonsense husband scanning the Boston Globe at their elegant dining room table, shutting out his wife’s perky voice.

Weaving her way toward the man of the hour, Gina said, “By the way, Flint Kingman finally caught up with me.”

“Really? So, what do you think of him?”

Gina shoved away the image of his dream-induced, rain-shrouded body. “I’m not sure. I can’t quite figure him out.” When the other woman breathed into the receiver, she asked, “What do you know about him, Morgan?”

“Hmm. Let’s see. His father is an advertising mogul, and his stepmother is absolutely riveting. Of course his real mother was equally stunning. She was a Hollywood starlet, but she died when Flint was a baby.”

Intrigued, Gina adjusted the phone. “Was she famous?”

“No, but she should have been. Supposedly she was really talented.”

Gina tried to picture the woman who’d given Flint Kingman life. “What was her name?”

“Danielle Wolf. But there isn’t a lot of old press about her. If you’re really curious about Flint, you should read up on Tara Shaw.”

“The movie star?” The aging bombshell? The world-famous blonde? “Why? Was she friends with his mother?”

Morgan made a crunching sound, as if she were eating breakfast while she talked. “Oh, no. It’s nothing like that. Flint used to work for Tara.”

“So? He’s a PR consultant. That’s perfectly understandable.”

The crunching sound stopped. “He had an affair with her, Gina.”

“Oh, my goodness.” Flint and Tara Shaw? The screen goddess of the 1970s? She had to be twice his age.

Morgan resumed eating. “Some reports say she broke his heart. Others say he broke hers. And some say they were both just playing around, tearing up the sheets for the fun of it.”

Gina shifted in her seat, nearly spilling her milk. She grabbed the glass before it tipped over. “When did this happen?”

“When he was fresh out of college. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.”

“Normally, I don’t pay attention to things like that. I’ve never really followed the Hollywood scene.”

“Well, I do,” Morgan said. “Their affair didn’t last long, but it created quite a scandal.”

“Bigger than the one going on in my life?”

“Much bigger.”

That was all it took. Gina spent the rest of the morning on the Internet, pulling up old articles on Tara Shaw and her wild, young lover.

While driving past the prestigious homes in Beacon Hill, Flint got the sudden urge to call Tara, to tell her what was going on.

He glanced at his car phone and realized foolishly that he didn’t have her number. He hadn’t spoken to Tara Shaw in over eight years. Flint had left Hollywood without looking back.

Besides, what the hell would he say to her? And what would her new husband think if her old lover just happened to ring her up?

With a squeal of his tires, he turned onto a familiar street and pulled into his parents’ driveway, knowing his dad would be home on a Sunday afternoon.

Flint and his father saw each other often. They worked in the same bustling high-rise, but these days they rarely spoke, at least not about important issues.

He unlocked the door with his key, the same key he’d had since he was a teenager. For eighteen years, this elegant mansion had been his home.

He stood in the marbled foyer for a moment, catching his reflection in a beveled mirror. It wasn’t a cold house, completely void of emotion, but it didn’t present a warm, fuzzy feeling, either.

But then how could it? Especially now?

He crossed the salon, passing Chippendale settees, ornate tables and gilded statues. The Kingmans were a successful family, but money didn’t necessarily make people happy.

He located his dad in the garden room, a timber-and-glass structure flourishing with greenery. Shimmering vines twined around redwood trellises, and colorful buds bloomed in a shower of floral abundance, thriving in the controlled environment.

James Kingman, a tall, serious man, with a square jaw and wide shoulders, enjoyed growing flowers, and he tended them with a gentle hand.

Today he hovered over a cluster of lady’s slippers, orchids as beautiful and beguiling as their fairy-tale name.

Flint shed his jacket, and the older man looked up.

“Well, hello,” he said, acknowledging his son’s presence. “What brings you by?”

You, me and my mom, he thought. The past, the present, the pain. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“About what?”

“My mother.”

James shook head. “I don’t want to rehash all of that again.”

“But I want to talk about it.”

“There’s nothing more to talk about. I told you everything. Just forget about it, let it go.”

Let it go? Forget about it?

Two weeks ago Flint had stumbled upon a horrible secret, and now the truth haunted him like a ghost. “You lied to me all those years, Dad.”

James shifted his stance. He wore jeans and a denim shirt, but he was impeccably groomed—a man of wealth and taste. “I did it to protect you. Why won’t you accept that?”

“Just tell me this much. Does Nsh’k know the truth?” he asked, thinking about his Cheyenne grandmother.

“Yes, she knew when it happened. It broke her heart.”

And now it’s breaking mine, Flint thought.

“You can’t bring this up to your grandmother,” his dad said. “It wouldn’t be right.”

Flint nodded. As a rule, the Cheyenne didn’t speak freely of the dead, and Nsh’k adhered to the old way. “Is she aware that I came upon the truth?”

“Yes, I told her. But she didn’t want to discuss it.”

No one wanted to discuss it, no one but Flint. Didn’t they understand that he needed to grieve? To come to terms with his role in all of this?

“It isn’t fair,” he said.

“Life isn’t fair,” James replied, using a cliché that only made Flint feel worse.

In the next instant they both fell silent. Water trickled from an ornamental fountain, mimicking the patter of rain.

Flint glanced at the glass ceiling and noticed dark clouds floating across a hazy blue sky.

He shrugged into his jacket. “I better go. I’ve got things to do.”

James met his troubled gaze. “Don’t be angry, son.”

Flint looked at his dad, at the blond hair turning a silvery shade of gray. He’d inherited his dad’s hazel eyes, but his dark hair and copper skin had come from his mother. The woman he wasn’t allowed to talk about.

“I’m not,” he said. It wasn’t anger eating away at his soul. It was pain. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the office. Give Faith a kiss for me,” he added, referring to his stepmother.

“She’ll be sorry she missed you.”

“I know.” He loved Faith Kingman. She’d raised him since he was ten years old, but she wasn’t willing to talk about this, either. Not if it meant betraying her husband.

Flint left his parents’ house, and James went back to his flowers, hiding behind their vibrant colors and velvet petals.

On Tuesday, Gina wore what she considered a power suit to the office. The blouse matched her eyes, the tailored black jacket nipped at her waist and the slim-fitting skirt rode just above her knees. But her pumps, bless them, were her secret weapon. When she strode through Baronessa’s corporate halls, they made a determined, confident click, giving her an air of feminine authority.

The fourth floor of the chrome-and-glass structure was Gina’s domain, and she often gazed out the windows, drawing strength from the city.

Today she needed all she could get.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. Flint would be here any minute.

Gina moved in front of her desk and remained standing, waiting anxiously for his arrival. She’d been rehearsing this moment in her mind for two days, practicing her lines, her gestures.

She knew plenty about Flint Kingman now. She’d even uncovered a few facts about his mother. Danielle Wolf, a half-Indian beauty from the Cheyenne reservation, had left home to pursue an acting career. Five years later she’d abandoned Hollywood to become a wife and mother and then died in a car accident a month after her son was born.

Gina intended to rent the B movies Danielle had costarred in. She suspected Flint had inherited his mother’s adventurous spirit. It wouldn’t hurt to analyze every aspect of her opponent’s personality, particularly if she was going to kick him off this harrowing project.

Gina’s secretary buzzed. She pressed the intercom. “Yes?”

“Mr. Kingman is here.”

She let out the breath she’d been holding. “Send him in.”

A minute later he strode through the door in a gray suit and silver-gray tie, his thick dark hair combed away from his face. Suddenly Gina could see the Native American in him—the rich color of his skin, the killer cheekbones, the deep-set eyes. They looked more brown than gold today, and she realized they were actually a stunning, ever-changing shade of hazel.

He flashed a cocky grin, and she reached for the apple on her desk and tossed it to him. Or at him, she supposed, since she’d heaved it like a shiny red baseball.

Caught off guard, he fumbled, dropped his briefcase and retrieved the apple in the nick of time.

The grin returned to his lips. “The forbidden fruit, Miss Barone?”

“Consider it a parting gift.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Am I going somewhere?”

“Anywhere but here,” she said, leaning against her desk like a corporate vamp. “I told you before that I’m not working with you.”

He picked up his briefcase and came forward. As self-assured as ever, he pulled up a chair and sat down, studying the apple.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Checking for worms.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “I’m not that evil.”

He lifted his gaze, and her smile fell. Why did he have to look at her like that? So sly, so sexy. She could almost feel his rain-slicked, dream-induced skin.

“All women are evil. And beautiful and clever in their own way,” he said. “I enjoy females.”

“So I’ve heard.” She walked around to the other side of her desk and sank into her leather chair, hoping to appear more powerful than she felt.

“You’re holding my dating record against me?” he asked.

“You mean your scorecard? Let’s face it, Mr. Kingman. You’re a player. You drive a fast, ferocious, racy red Corvette, keep company with bimbos and then notch your bedpost after each insensitive conquest.”

He gave her a level stare. “Nice try, but that’s not quite accurate. You see, I have a brass bed, and the metal is a little hard to notch.”

Gina steeled her nerves. She had a brass bed, too. The one he’d invaded. “You indulged in an affair with a movie star twice your age.”

Something flashed in his eyes. Pain? Anger? Male pride? She couldn’t be sure.

“Aren’t you going to defend yourself?” she asked, confused by his silence.

Suddenly Flint Kingman, the confident, carefree spin doctor, was impossible to read.

Two

Gina waited for him to respond, but he just sat there, staring at her.

“Well?” she asked, unnerved by those unwavering eyes.

Finally he blinked, sending sparks of amber shooting through his irises. “What do you want me to say? I was only twenty-two at the time.”

Which meant what? That he’d actually been in love? Or that he’d been too young and too wild to control his sexual urges?

“How are you going to polish Baronessa’s reputation when your own reputation isn’t exactly glowing?” she asked, refusing to let it go. Flint had been a virile twenty-two-year-old, and Tara had been a dazzling role model for forty-three-year-olds everywhere, proving women could be desirable at any age. But their relationship still bothered Gina.

He squared his shoulders. “I’m more than qualified to pull Baronessa out of this mess.”

“And so am I.” Even if she had been the one who’d unwittingly dragged Baronessa into it.

“Really?” He placed his briefcase on his lap and opened it, and with the flick of his wrists he scattered a stack of supermarket tabloids across Gina’s desk.

The headlines hit her square in the chest.

Mysterious Curse Destroys Ice Cream Empire.

Mafia Mayhem in Boston. Will the Sicilian-Born Barones Survive?

Passion Fruit Versus Passion Death. Who Tried to Murder an Innocent Man?

“I’ve read these,” she said. “And they’re filled with lies. That curse is nonsense. My family isn’t connected to the mob. And the man who suffered an allergic reaction to the peppers recovered with no ill effects.”

“Maybe so, but just stating the facts isn’t enough. What’s your plan to counter the negative press, Miss Barone? This is some pretty heavy-duty stuff.”

She shoved the tabloids aside, and her ulcer sprang to life, her stomach acids eating a hole right through her, creating a familiar pain.

“I intend to hold a contest,” she said. “Something that will get the public involved.”

“Like what? Name That Curse?”

Smart-ass, she thought, narrowing her eyes at him. “More like create a new gelato flavor. Baronessa will invite the public to come up with a flavor to replace passionfruit. The winner of the contest and the new flavor will get lots of press, plenty of positive media attention.”

He sat quietly, mulling over her idea. Finally he said, “That’s a great marketing tool, but it’s too soon for a contest. First we need something juicier. A bigger scandal, something that will make the press forget all about that pepper fiasco.”

“And I suppose you’ve already cooked up the perfect scandal.”

He smoothed his hair, a gesture she’d seen more than once. But he did have that rebellious strand, the Elvis lock that repeatedly fell forward.

“Truthfully,” he admitted, “I haven’t zeroed in on the perfect scandal, but when I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I don’t like the idea,” she told him. “All we’ll be doing is replacing one set of lies for another. That doesn’t cut it for me.”

“Too bad. It’s the way to go. Believe me, I’ve worked this angle before.” He reached for one of the tabloids. “So what’s the deal on this curse?”

Gina pressed against the pain, the gnawing, burning sensation in her stomach. “Aren’t you supposed to know all of this already?”

“I want to hear it in your words. I want your take on the curse.”

“I already told you, it’s nonsense.” She rose and walked to the bar. Not because she was a gracious hostess, but because she needed to coat the burn. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

He shook his head, and she poured herself a glass of milk. “It does a body good,” she said, when he eyed the white liquid curiously.

He roamed his gaze over her, sweeping her curves with masculine appreciation. “So I see.”

Her pulse shot up her arm. Don’t flirt with me, she thought. Don’t look at me with those bedroom eyes.

But he did. He watched her. Closely. They way he’d watched her in that dream, just seconds before she’d undressed him.

Neither spoke. They stared at each other, caught in one those awkward, sexually stirring moments.

Finally, he broke eye contact, and she brought the milk to her lips. The thick, creamy drink slid down her throat.

“The curse,” Flint reminded her, his voice a little too rough.

Gina took her seat, struggling for composure. This felt like a curse, she thought. This impossible attraction.

“It started with my grandfather,” she said. “He jilted a girl who’d wanted to marry him, and on Valentine’s Day, he eloped with my grandmother instead. So the other girl put a curse on my grandparents and their descendants. She vowed that misery would strike on their anniversary, marking Valentine’s Day a holiday of disaster.”

“Then why did you schedule the passionfruit tasting on February fourteenth?” he asked. “That seems a little risky to me.”

“Because I was determined to prove that curse wrong. Besides, a flavor called passionfruit made a nice Valentine’s Day promotion.” She drank some more milk. “Or it should have.”

He gathered the tabloids and put them into his briefcase. “You lied to me, Miss Barone. You don’t think the curse is nonsense. You believe in it now.”

Steeped in guilt, she defended herself. “I’m not a superstitious woman, but I should have been more cautious. Some unfortunate things have happened to my family on Valentine’s Day over the years, but those events seemed like coincidence. A fluke here and there.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll repair the damage.”

“No, I will,” she countered.

He shrugged, then taunted her with that slow, sensual smile, reminding her that she’d dreamed about him.

When he stood to leave, she heard a sudden burst of rain hit the windows behind her.

A cool, hard, male-driven rain.

After Flint departed, Gina went straight to her brother’s office. Nicholas held the prestigious COO title, the chief operations officer, at Baronessa Gelati.

He stood well over six feet, with a strong, athletic build, jet-black hair and blue eyes. Women, including his new wife and daughter, found him irresistible. Gina, however, considered herself immune to his charm. He’d abandoned his playboy ways for a blissful marriage, but he still had a high dose of testosterone running through his veins, which made him difficult to manipulate.

“I want you to fire Flint Kingman,” she said.

Nicholas sat behind his desk and rolled his impressive shoulders, looking like the powerful corporate male he was.

“Why?”

Because I dreamed about him, she wanted to say. He invaded my mind, my bed. “Because he’s going to do this company more harm than good.”

“How so?”

“He intends to cook up a phony scandal to divert the press.”

“That’s what he does, Gina. He’s a spin doctor and a damn good one. I trust his instincts.”

“What about my instincts?”

“You’re a bright, capable woman, but this is his area of expertise.”

She sat across from her brother and picked up a rubber band off his desk, wishing she could flick it at him. He was eight years her senior, and he’d always treated her like a child. He used to call her noodle head because curls sprang from her scalp like spiral pasta.

Gina glared at Nicholas and smoothed her hair. These days she tamed her curls in a professional chignon. “So you’re taking Flint’s side?”

He leaned forward, trapping her gaze. “His side? You’re not turning this into a gender war, are you?”

She thought about the apple, the forbidden fruit, she’d tossed at Flint this afternoon. “He bosses me around.”

“Probably because you’re fighting him every step of the way. You’ve got to curb your temper, Gina.”

She stretched the rubber band, wishing she had the courage to let it fly.

“We brought Flint in as a consultant.” Nicholas went on. “The idea is for the two of you to work together.”

“Fine.” She could see this was going nowhere. Coming to her feet, she blew a frustrated breath. Rain still pounded against the windows, reminding her that Flint controlled the weather, too.

Would she ever get that image out of her mind? That long, lean, water-slicked body?

“And don’t go running to Dad about this,” Nicholas warned.

“I don’t intend to,” she responded, trying to sound more grown-up than she felt. “I’ll work with Flint if I have to. But I won’t let him call all the shots.”

Nicholas grinned. “Spoken like a true woman.”

“And don’t you forget it.” She turned to march out of his office, her feminine armor—the tailored suit and high-heeled pumps—securely in place.

“I love you, noodle head,” he said before she reached the door.

She stopped and smiled. She loved Nicholas Barone, too. Even if he was her big, brawny, know-it-all brother.

Hours later Gina drove home, her windshield wipers clapping to the rhythm of the rain. She lived in a brownstone in the North End, a family-owned, renovated building she shared with two of her sisters. They each had their own sprawling apartment, but they often gathered in the community living room on the first floor to curl up with a bowl of extra-buttered popcorn and talk.

She parked her car and walked to the front of the brownstone, only to find Flint sitting on the stoop, his overcoat flapping in the wind.

She stopped dead in her tracks and stared at him. He looked up, his face speckled with rain, his waterlogged hair slick and shiny.

“It didn’t work, did it?” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Your brother wouldn’t fire me, would he?”

She moved forward, taking shelter from the storm. How did he know that she’d complained to Nicholas? Was she that predictable?

He rose, attacking her with that insufferable smile. “I want you to have dinner with me tonight.”

Her heart pole-vaulted its way to her throat. “What? Why?”

“So we can get used to each other. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. And there’s no point in wasting time.”

She snuggled deeper into her coat. “But it’s raining.”

He gave her an odd look. “You don’t eat when it rains?”

Of course, she did. She just didn’t relish the idea of spending time in his company, particularly with water falling from the sky.

Then again, maybe a business dinner would take the edge off. Maybe it would help her forget that other image. “Fine. I’ll have a meal with you.” But he’d better not steal food from her plate, she thought.

“Meet me at the Beef and Bull around seven,” he said. It’s a steak house on—”

“I know where it is,” she interrupted. “And I’ll be there at eight.”

“Seven-thirty,” he challenged.

“Eight,” she countered in a firm tone. She needed time to bathe, to change, to fix her rain-drizzled hair.

“All right,” he said, giving in with a grumble. “But don’t be late.”

Gina reached for her keys and sent him a triumphant smile. She’d finally gotten her way. On a small scale, maybe, but it was a start.

At precisely eight o’clock, Flint arrived at the Beef and Bull, a quiet, dimly lit steak house decorated with knotty-pine walls and Western antiques.

He approached the hostess and gave her his name. “I’m expecting a companion,” he said. “Has she arrived yet?”

The young woman shook her head. “No, Mr. Kingman, she hasn’t.”

He gestured to a shadowy corner in the waiting room. “I’ll just kick back over there until she gets here.”

The hostess nodded and smiled. He returned her polite smile and moved out of the way, giving the people behind him a chance to check their reservation.

Settling onto a leather cushion, he stretched his legs out in front of him.

Impatient, he checked his watch, and suddenly the diamond-and-gold timepiece glinted like a superficial jewel, a reminder of who he was and where he’d come from.

Damn it, he thought. Why couldn’t he accept the way things were? The way he’d been raised?

Because his charmed life had changed. Flint Kingman wasn’t the same man anymore. The truth about his mother had altered his heart, his soul, the very core of his existence.

Gina entered the restaurant, and he steadied his emotions.

No matter how troubled he was, he wouldn’t let it affect his career. The Barones had hired him to defuse the crisis in their company. And come hell or high water, that was what he intended to do.

He remained seated and assessed Gina for a moment. After he’d left her office this afternoon, he’d come up with a plan. A damn good one. But it meant getting close to Gina, not close enough to infringe on the confused order of his life, but close enough to fool the public.

And with that in mind, he’d invited her to dinner. He needed to see her in a romantic setting, to explore the energy between them.

The sexual energy, he thought. The unexpected heat.

Gina Barone couldn’t stand his dominating personality, and her high-and-mighty attitude annoyed the hell out of him. But that didn’t matter. This was strictly business, a teeth-gnashing, tough-to-temper attraction that could work in their favor.

Besides, he’d already fantasized about her. Earlier this evening, when he’d taken a stress-relieving shower, she’d slipped right into the steam.

He hadn’t meant to think about her and certainly not in a state of undress, but he’d lost the battle. With a sizzling, soap-scented mirage of her in his mind, he couldn’t seem to control the yearning, the I’m-too-old-for-wet-dreams hunger. Trapped beneath a spray of warm water, he’d closed his eyes and imagined her—

She turned and saw him, and Flint gulped a gust of air.

How tall was she? he wondered. Five-nine? Five-ten? In his mind’s eye, she’d fit him perfectly in the shower, that sweet, slim, incredibly moist body—

She moved closer, and he came to his feet, his six-foot-three frame still draped in a knee-length raincoat. Beneath it, he wore a suit with a Western flair, but if he didn’t get his hormones in check, he would be sporting a big, boyish bulge in the vicinity of his zipper.

“You’re late,” he told her, when they were eye to eye.

“And you’re acting like a jerk, as usual,” she responded.

He couldn’t help but smile. They had the weirdest chemistry, but somehow it worked.

Of course that ice-princess act of hers wouldn’t charm the media, and it wouldn’t seduce the public, either. Which meant he would have to revamp her image a little.

She removed her coat, and he slid his gaze up and down the luscious length of her body. Oh, yeah, he thought. He could mold her into a nice yet naughty girl—a kitten with a whip.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Just looking,” he responded, shooting a smile straight into her eyes. Her dress wasn’t quite short enough, but the creamy beige color complemented her skin.

He reached out to loosen one of her curls, but she backed away, refusing to let him touch her. “Keep your hands to yourself, Kingman.”

“But the rain messed up your hair,” he lied. “I was just going to fix it.”

She huffed out a shallow breath, and he knew he’d made her nervous. A good kind of nervous. The sexy kind.

“My hair’s fine,” she said.

No, it wasn’t, he thought, itching to tousle it. The lady-of-the-manor style was too damn proper, too coiffed.

“Are you going to buy me dinner or not?” she asked.

“Sure. Let’s get our table.”

The hostess seated them in a fairly secluded booth. A snow-white candle dripped wax, and a single red rose bloomed in a bud vase, giving the rustic tabletop a touch of date-night ambience.

The waiter came by, offering cocktails. Gina declined a glass of wine, opting for iced tea instead. Flint went for an imported beer.

Silent, they studied their menus. Five minutes later, when the waiter returned with their drinks, Flint and Gina ordered the same meal. Or nearly the same meal, with the exception of a rare steak for him and a well-done cut for her.

Soon a basket of warm bread arrived. He reached out to offer her a slice at the same time she chose to get one for herself. But before their hands collided, she pulled back.

He took the lead, following his original plan. Tilting the basket toward her, he said, “Go ahead, Miss Barone. Or would it be all right if I called you Gina?”

She made her selection, then proceeded to lather it with whipped butter. “Gina is fine.”

He watched her take a bite. “And so is Flint,” he told her.

She swallowed and then made a pleasured sound, like a soft, sweet, bedroom murmur.

Amused, he reached for his beer. “Say it,” he said.

She glanced up. “Excuse me?”

“My name. Say my name.”

She gave him a curious look. “Flint.”

Enjoying himself, he bit back a grin. “That was pretty good, but it wasn’t quite right. You need to moan after you say my name, like you did after you ate the bread.”

Finally aware of his little joke, she shoved the basket toward him. “Stuff it, Flint.”

He flashed the grin he’d been hiding. “I couldn’t help it. I mean, here’s a woman who gets orgasmic over bread and butter.”

“I wasn’t orgasmic.”

“Yes, you were.”

“I was not.”

She glared at him from across the table, but her haughty expression fell short. When he stared at her, she became flustered, toying with the napkin on her lap.

“Don’t,” she said.

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.”

He studied her features, struck by those violet eyes and that full, lush mouth. “But you’re beautiful, Gina.” And he couldn’t stop the attraction, the heat, the sexual spontaneity rising in his blood.

She drew a ragged breath, and a shimmer of silence ensued.

Rain pounded against the building, and the flame on the candle danced between them, intensifying the moment.

Flint sent her a small, sensual smile. She was perfect for the scandal he had in mind.

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