by Lori Foster
Rage kicked him into gear, forcing his footsteps over to Louis, where he shadowed the boss with his height. “Look, do you have any idea how Castle is connected to my new client?”
Louis shrugged. “Of course. Say, McIntyre, I’ve got a conference call with Edgar Lux and his publishing house. Can you show Fiona to her office when she’s ready?” Then he lowered his voice. “That is, unless she gets comfortable in your chair.”
Rather than saying something that would cause Louis to fly into a fit, Sean kept his mouth shut, electing instead to usher his boss from the room with a thanks-a-lot glare.
Louis dashed away, leaving Sean alone with a woman who could very well be the end of his career at Stellar. If you could call it a career anymore.
He turned his attention to Fiona, trying to focus his anger. But he was distracted by the way her dress caught the sun through its sheer material, a dreamcatcher winding darker hopes through the threads of red while allowing fantasies to pass through.
“Let me guess,” she said, her back still to him, “watch out for Louis Martin.”
“The guy’s harmless, unless you don’t know how to play office politics.”
She turned around with a smile, leaning against the window frame, shifting the sunlight and blinding him with another jab of pure lust.
“I know how to play,” she said. “Do you?”
He couldn’t hold back a sardonic laugh. Another sweeping gaze over that jazz-baby body. “Listen, Ms. Cruz—”
“Call me Fiona.”
“Fiona.” The purr of her name caught in his throat. A professional-suicide hairball.
To compensate, he sauntered nearer to her, hovering. Her chin lifted as she stood her ground, tension snapping between their bodies while he leaned in close enough to catch her scent. A tang of fruit—fresh, exotic.
“Let’s be direct. You’re here to bust my balls,” he murmured.
She reached out with both hands, gripping the ends of his undone tie—that and his rolled-up sleeves evidence of a hard-knock day—and pulled down gently. A hitched breath separated their faces, their mouths.
“Bust your balls? Oh, no, sir.” She laughed softly. “I’ll be more gentle than that.”
Her hands floated downward, one knuckle brushing against the reawakening bulge in his pants. Or maybe she hadn’t touched him at all and he was just wishing she had.
At any rate, she stepped away from him, shoulder sliding against his arm with lackadaisical disregard. Then she took a stand, hands on hips, a challenge in her raised eyebrows.
A player. Fiona Cruz was obviously one of those teases in a suit, one who flaunted her femininity around the boys’ locker room, working them with a come-hither/hands-off strategy. Controlling.
The female version of him.
There was one way to handle the Fionas of the world. Get down to business first, then… What would she do if he took her up on those silent, raw-edged invitations?
He leaned against the back of a leather couch, folded his arms over his chest. “You came fully loaded to Stellar, didn’t you? Lincoln Castle, the Brad Pitt of daytime soaps.”
“He’s a good friend. We’ve known each other since college. Besides, I excel at what I do.”
“You’ll need to. His star’s not so golden anymore. And he was going places, too, with that Aaron Spelling gig he used to have.”
There. A flinch. A different tilt of the hip. And, damn her, even though she wasn’t smiling anymore, her lips still tipped up at the ends, giving her an I-know-something-you-don’t-know upper hand.
“Linc missed daytime acting, and Flamingo Beach made an offer he couldn’t refuse,” Fiona said.
“Yeah,” Sean replied, “he’s so thrilled to be back on a soap that he’s hired his own private publicist.”
She acknowledged his point by staying cool and silent. Many soap actors made good use of the PR rep the soap employed—unless they decided to go “big time.”
Finally, after a sufficiently maddening pause, she responded. “Lincoln’s always been in demand, but he wants the security of being in a soap right now. That’s all.”
“Good try, Dr. Spin.” He almost mentioned the actor’s rumored time in rehab, and how no one outside the soaps—where Lincoln had a strong fan base—would probably ever take a chance on him. But he didn’t say a word.
Sean could relate to Castle, because he knew a lot about seeing your professional star fall from the highest point, knew a lot about battling one unworkable PR disaster after another: rising stars who enjoyed “working girls,” fading actresses who climbed on political soap boxes and aired extremely conservative opinions. Sean McIntyre, as good as he was, couldn’t save every reputation.
But he’d get back on top, especially with his new account.
He continued. “You know I handle Lakota Lang’s publicity now?”
“Ah.” Fiona was grinning again.
“I can’t believe Louis didn’t sense a conflict of interest.”
“Why, because Lakota and Linc once slept together?”
“Once slept together?” Sean chuffed. “They burned the sheets from coast to coast. In several very public positions, too.”
“I know. Passion.” Fiona’s gaze drifted to the ceiling, all Cinderella soap dreams and glass slippers. But as quick as the pop of a bubble, the soft sparkle in her eyes disappeared. Right back to the career woman. “Isn’t it convenient that they’re on the same show again? Imagine the publicity we could work, the possibilities.”
“For what? Them killing each other?” Sean shook his head. “This is trouble waiting to happen, and you’re having delusions of grandeur.”
“Pshaw.” Fiona moved to his desk, sat on the edge of it, rankling Sean with the territorial gesture. “You need to look at the bright side, Mac. We’ve got a gold mine.”
Mac? “So we’re pals already,” he said dryly.
“Hey, you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”
A hunger stretched in his belly, pawing at the inside of his skin.
He grinned. “Does the offer extend to—”
“—Bad boy.” She wagged her finger at him. “We’re talking business.”
“You do business with all the shy delicacy of Anna Nicole Smith.”
She watched him, tracking his movements as he rose from the couch. “I can tell you’re going to keep me on my toes.”
Right. Either there or on her back.
That wolfish howl screamed through his veins once again.
Jerk.
Not that he’d ever heard any complaints about his libido and its excesses. He loved women: their slippery skin after a bout of sex, their sighs of pleasure in his ear, their muscles clenching around his cock as they came. But sometimes Sean wondered if he’d be married with kids by now, happy as the families in a fast-food commercial, if it hadn’t been for the way he was brought up.
Forget all that. He had business to do.
He brushed by her, trying not to let her mouth-watering perfume get the best of him, then sat in his chair. Claiming it.
Fiona scanned him over her shoulder, eyes unreadable. “I like a guy who can give me a run for my money. We’re going to be quite a team.”
“I work alone.”
She stood, started to leave. “That’s not what I heard.”
“You’ve done your research with me, huh?” He laughed. “I guess I won’t make the mistake of underestimating you.”
She turned around, holding up a finger. “That’s right. And the same goes for me. I know you’re tops. Three years ago, you engineered the Yum Gum blitz campaign winning the Guerilla Marketers of the Year award from Brandweek magazine. Not bad. Not bad at all.”
Sean wasn’t fool enough to swell with pride. Three years was a long time. Time enough to lose your footing.
“Oh, before I leave you in peace,” she added, “that children’s charity event you have Lakota attending tomorrow night? Linc’s going, too. He’s got a big heart and wants to help raise mo
ney.”
“Is his heart as big as his ambition?”
He wanted to know the same about her, too. Not that heart mattered much in this business.
Fiona lifted her hands in a gracefully dramatic gesture. “I’ve sent out press releases hinting that Linc’s an all-around enormous man. Not that I’ve seen anything firsthand.”
Cheeky. “Uh-huh, right, you’re college friends. FYI, Lakota Lang’s a micromanaging superstar in the making, and that means she wants me at the event to oversee her moment in the spotlight.”
“I’m sure she’ll be more comfortable flying solo once she gets used to her diva role.” Was that a proxy swipe at his client, establishing the ill will between Lakota and Lincoln?
Sean’s voice took on an edge of sarcasm. “All the same, I’ll report back to you, boss.”
“No need. I’ll be there. Linc’s escorting me. More social than business, but I’ll be wearing my professional demeanor.”
Friends, huh? A claw of jealousy scored Sean, but he ignored it. Sure, he’d love to see what Fiona Cruz was made of when she stepped out of the office, but the fulfillment of his curiosity might blow his career to smithereens.
“Great,” he said, pausing when she didn’t move completely out of his domain. “Need me to show you to your dungeon?”
“No.” She took pains to adjust her sleeves, the filmy material breezing over her dusky skin. “I already know where it is. Remember, I’ve done my research, Mac.”
And, without further ado, she left him sitting behind the desk, his emerging grin beating back a more prudent frown.
Sure, he was hungry for more, but that didn’t mean he was happy about it.
THE NEXT NIGHT, at the fund-raiser in the Renaissance Hollywood Hotel, Lincoln Castle was reluctant to come out of the men’s rest room.
So, naturally, Fiona went in.
“Linc?” She poked her head around the door.
Two men stood before the urinal, mouths agape. One zipped up and deserted the room, shooting Fiona a dirty glare, which she answered with her best charmingly apologetic smile. The other man took his time, nodding at her and leering.
She ignored him, slipping farther into the forbidden space. “Linc, I know you’re in here.”
“Stage fright.” His words echoed off the tile. “I’ll get over it.”
Fiona’s nerves jumped in sympathy for her friend. He was fine in front of the cameras, but live audiences? Another beast all together.
She followed his voice to a stall. The door creaked open to reveal her college pal. Lincoln Castle—a stage name for Kevin Lincoln. He was a composite of every heartthrob cliché imaginable, with a six-foot tall, freestyle-weight physique, tanned skin, blond hair and blue eyes. All of that in a tux, besides.
“Hey,” she said.
He looked so lost and pathetic propped up by the wall, eyes closed. “Just waiting for the Alka-Seltzer to take hold.”
“Do you think that ‘plop-plop-fizz-fizz’ will chase away more than your anxiety?”
Linc blinked his eyes open after the other bathroom patron slammed the door on his way out. “Thanks. I needed to be reminded of Lakota. That, coupled with this bid for comeback success, really makes my night.”
Still, he managed a grin.
It was the same disarmingly sensitive gesture she’d known throughout her early twenties. Same guy, even though soap stardom, a featured role on a hot prime-time drama then a brief, mortifying obscurity had claimed him.
“See,” she said, “you’re better already. Let’s go.”
“You in some kind of rush?”
Fiona raised her brows. “Why would I be?”
Why? Could it be the fact that Sean McIntyre—Mac—would be in the Grand Ballroom?
When she focused again, Linc was assessing her.
“You’re putting off steam, Fi.”
“Me?” Fiona walked away, propelled by a nervous, sexual energy. She could almost feel Mac in the building, could almost hunt him down with her awakened senses.
Without warning, the bathroom door crashed against the wall. Security guard. Wonderful.
“Miss,” said the tidy little uniformed man, “this ain’t the ladies’ john.”
Linc half stumbled out of the stall, revealing himself. Fiona discreetly checked his eyes, his scent. Good. Not drunk.
The guard held up his hands. “Hey! My girlfriend used to watch you on that Thursday night show!”
Linc modestly shrugged, and Fiona’s heart went out to him. Though daytime soaps were filled with solid actors, the genre was considered a step down from prime time. But Linc didn’t seem to mind right now. Like most soap actors, he genuinely loved the fans, relished the contact.
As the man asked for an autograph and repeated over and over how his honey wouldn’t believe this, Fiona stood by. Linc’s connection with the public was one of his strengths.
Soon, they were on their way to the fund-raiser. The festivities were being held down the boulevard from the legendary cemented hand and footprints and refurbished glamour of the Chinese Theatre. The hotel was tucked next to the Kodak Theatre, the most recent home of the Academy Awards. Dazzle and sophistication cloaked the black-tie guests.
When she and her friend walked into the Grand Ballroom arm in arm, lulled by the DJ’s background-volume techno music, blinded by photo-op flashbulbs and fake silver stars hanging from the ceiling, the first person who caught her eye was Mac.
And he was worth the wait. The man shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a tuxedo. The sight was enough to make every woman in the room implode. The way he filled out the dark, suave cut of his jacket with those steel-beam shoulders, that broad chest, those hefting-the-weight-of-the-world arms…
How would the female race survive if they were all spontaneously combusting? It just didn’t seem fair.
While Linc led her farther into the roar of the party, she allowed her gaze to linger on Mac a decadent moment longer. She couldn’t stop herself.
Shaded blond hair, razored to just above the collar, green eyes with a sharp-shooter squint, the rakish hint of stubbled mustache and half beard surrounding a full mouth slanted in wary repose. If you took all his features and inspected them one by one—as she’d slyly done today during a firm meeting—they’d be slightly off-kilter. Especially the subtly crooked nose and the too-strong chin.
But all together….
Whoo doggie.
As Fiona and Linc moved past the summer-night decorations featuring simulated moons glinting over the sea, past the auction items and information tables, she realized Mac wasn’t alone.
The vampish Lakota Lang was leeched onto him.
After refusing drinks from a passing waiter, Linc’s arm stiffened as they came to a stop on the opposite side of the empty dance floor.
She squeezed his solid bicep, hopefully lending him reassurance. “Steady.”
The emotion in his voice belied his polished, pretty-boy exterior. “I’m good.”
Gorgeous Linc. Not like Mac, who seemed to wear that worn-and-torn attitude like it was an outlaw’s faded duster, edges shredded and beaten by a run of bad luck. You had to look past the rough smirk, the creviced slant of his cheek bones to see the bruised beauty of him.
Hey, cool it with the Snow White la-de-da fantasies, she told herself. Get your mind back on Linc. Back on business.
Fiona patted her friend’s wrist. “Ignore Lakota, just like you’ve been doing.”
“She doesn’t make it easy.”
“At least you don’t have scenes together.”
“Yet. And who’s the guy she’s salivating over?”
Fiona tried not to react, to light up inside at the mention of Mac. Instead, she playfully pulled Linc away from the dance floor, but he wouldn’t budge.
“No competition. You are a demigod,” she said. “I’m telling you so. All the soap magazines tell you so.”
He laughed, thank goodness. “I appreciate that, but I’m in trouble when I start believing
my own press.”
Fiona barely heard him. What was that woman doing to Mac, rubbing her hand up and down his arm? And…was he smiling? Reacting to the way she arched her neck when she giggled?
Oh, and she supposed that her co-worker was probably making the most of his low, sexy voice. Its touch of snake-charmer trust.
Well, yesterday’s flirtatious introduction had been her fault, really. She’d come on strong, immediately drawn to him as he’d assessed her from his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, cocky as you please. She loved a man who had the talent to banter, to tease. To tower over her until her body almost melted right into his.
He’s a co-worker, a competitor, Fi. Don’t forget it.
Right. Right. Her conscience was absolutely right. And her pride couldn’t afford to lose another PR gig.
Even from across the room, Fiona felt his rifle-sight gaze on her before actually meeting his eyes. They hadn’t said a word to each other in the office today, both consumed with arranging photo shoots, media interviews and guest appearances for other clients. But, right now, the awareness was flammable. Unavoidable.
A quaking need roared through her, tearing through every inch of skin until it splashed into her belly, dripping into a steady pulse between her legs. God, the ache. The want.
He must have seen the desire in the angle of her body. With a devilish grin, he toasted her from across the floor. She re turned a jaunty salute with her own champagne flute.
Lakota must have seen their exchange, because the redhead latched onto Mac’s muscular arm, staring stilettos at Fiona.
Linc walked away, taking her with him. “More Alka-Selzter.”
Fiona tugged him back, gently, so no one would notice the tension. “Don’t go drama on me. You didn’t keep me on as your publicist so I could look the other way as you make a scene.”
“You’re my employee, Fi.”
His tone was light, but she knew better. Before rehab, when Lincoln got agitated, he got into trouble. That was the problem with being talented and catered to. But she loved him enough to continue keeping him in line. He’d almost ruined his career after the breakup with Lakota, who was at the time an extra on Linc’s daytime set. His broken heart had led to an excess of drinking, partying, getting into scrapes that Fiona and Linc’s manager constantly got him out of.
