by Lori Foster
And she cared too much to see him fall apart again.
“Listen,” she said, “I appreciate how you stuck by me after I got fired at the last firm, but their lack of faith doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing now. Don’t falter. You’re going to have to put up with Lakota every day.”
She could feel his struggle in the ticking muscles of his arm, but she knew he’d pull through. She’d make sure of it.
“I can’t believe she’s the star of Flamingo Beach,” he said, acknowledging a female fan who made it clear she recognized him by pointing and squealing. “How the tables have turned, huh? Now I’m the new guy.”
Fiona flicked another gaze to Mac again, discovered that he’d left Lakota all alone, and breathed a sigh of relief. “Don’t sweat it. You’ll do fine.”
He nodded, squeezed her hand. “I suppose I will. Now if you could only keep your mind on your publicity stunts….”
She didn’t have to ask what he meant. “That man with Lakota, Sean McIntyre, works with me. There’s a little flirting going on, but…”
“…But?”
Lying to Linc, to herself was useless. “Okay, he’s my kind of poison. True. But I’ll be good.”
“Good? You actually know that word?” Linc’s laughter rose above the fresh set of reggae music. “That’s a new one. I thought girls with your body and appetite weren’t built for flowers and valentines.”
Fiona’s heart fisted, bleeding out every stupid romantic dream she hid from the world. She had no use for roses and sweet nothings anyway. Hadn’t needed them for a long time, after being slammed by Ted, the ex.
Nope. Now she was in control of her life, every aspect. Her career, her family, her love…
…Or lack of love life.
Didn’t matter. Not in the least. She got along just fine with men, keeping relationships to the essentials—sex and…well, sex. She didn’t hurt anyone, they didn’t hurt her. It was all fun and games, light and laughter.
No more sitting at home, crying because her man had done her wrong.
Never again.
“Fi?” said Lincoln, rubbing a hand along her bare arm. “You know I don’t believe you’re heartless.”
Fiona manufactured a smile, beaming at him. “You’re the only one. And you’re wrong, besides.”
Her friend stared at her a moment longer. He’d been there when Ted had dumped her, and she’d returned the favor with Lakota. That’s what glued them together—their failures and, soon, triumphs.
“Soap hunk,” she said, “there’s a group of women waving you over to them. Probably for autographs and a picture or two. And I see your manager and personal assistant making a beeline for you. Escape to the fans while you can.”
He straightened his bow tie, his debonair jacket, and with an amiable wink, he was off. Fiona diligently tried to keep her mind on business—damn, it was hard watching her charge like a proud mama seeing her child off to the first day of school, when Mac was somewhere around. As Linc’s mini-entourage controlled the growing crowd surrounding him, he proceeded to charm the ladies, posing for photos, signing autograph books.
The night wore on, and she stayed on the outskirts of the festivities while Linc bid adieu to his fans and led the auction. He helped raise several thousand dollars for the children’s charity, while a distant Lakota and other cast members from Flamingo Beach joined him onstage to entertain the masses.
As the presentation wound down, Fiona glanced around the ballroom, discovering that Lakota Lang was holding hands with Brendon Fillmore, a fading young James-Dean-type actor who still had enough drawing power to attract attention and probably a gossip mention in the fan magazines. Had Mac arranged their liaison, manipulating every shared laugh, every hug for the camera?
Good publicity move. But Fiona wanted to be sure Linc didn’t notice. Her friend didn’t need another dart to the ego.
When she checked on him, he was busy with a gaggle of adoring fans and seemingly having the time of his life. Some security guards now flanked him.
Maybe now was a good time to visit the powder room, to freshen up.
She set down her champagne and walked toward the rest room, entering a shady hall crammed with gossiping women and soap-star wannabes. Just as she spotted the ladies’ room ahead, a young girl crashed into her, yelling, “I think that’s Deirdre Hall! Oh. My. God.” Then the fan took off, bumping Fiona into the nearest body.
A broad-shouldered, hard-chested body.
“Packed house,” said a deep voice. A pair of large hands closed over her arms, steadying her, charging shock waves through the top layer of her skin.
Sucking in a breath, she looked closer, finding Mac standing over her, smiling, challenging her to pass in the limited space.
“Not much room to maneuver.” She nodded her head to ward the ladies’ door. “Do you mind?”
He didn’t move. “Go right ahead.”
All right. She wouldn’t be able to get by him without some full frontal contact, the jerk.
So be it. With a saucy glance, she slid her body over his. Too close. The tips of her breasts hardened and dragged against his jacket, the thin linen of his shirt, slipping over the bulk of his powerful chest, the ridges of his upper abs. At the same time, her hips swayed over his, the hitch in his crotch making her pause and hold her breath. As they stared at each other, she grew moist, achy with the possibilities.
He bent his head, his lips near her forehead, a whisper stir ring her hair with warmth.
“Can’t move?” he asked.
No. She wouldn’t mind nestling against him for the next hour, either, his arousal tucked into her as random people shifted around them, the crowd unaware of Fiona’s desire to flow into his fire like glass over flame. She could imagine being in this same position in the dark of night, her legs wrapped around him, urging him inside, moving with every thrust, every slick demand.
She hadn’t been attracted to anyone like this in years. Hadn’t wanted to rub against them in a packed room, hardly caring what anyone else thought.
For a second, Fiona dipped against him, struggling against the thick moisture of a people-choked room, the overwhelm ing buzz of being touched so intimately. She was dizzy with the faint scent of leather jacket and…what? Enjoying the fantasy? Fighting to keep her breathing even? Liking the fact that she couldn’t manage to gain the upper hand?
But then someone crashed into them, banging Fiona’s head against the wall. Knocking some sense into her. Get a hold of yourself, Fi.
“Excuse me,” she said, trying to make her way past Mac, cold air nibbling at her skin, at the regretful loss of contact.
He gripped her arms tighter. The blood expanded in her veins, thudding, echoing jungle drums, primal and mysterious.
A silly thought occurred to her. What if he didn’t let go?
Ridiculous. And tempting, too. But she should have been more worried about other questions.
What if she allowed him to keep her restrained?
It wouldn’t happen. Fiona would never fall prey to the whims of anyone—not even this man—again.
She shot a lethal smile at her amused captor. “I’m leaving,” she said. “Game over.”
“Actually…” Sean McIntyre returned her own slash of a grin. “It’s just starting.”
Chapter Two
“WHAT’S JUST STARTING?” she asked, dark eyes cautious, smudged with a hint of something like interest.
“The game.”
His grip on her arms tightened even more, and Fiona gasped. Sweet sound, that gasp, making Sean’s pulse tumble and growl.
He didn’t know she could seem so vulnerable, with her lips parted, her hands grasping at his biceps, clenching, then relaxing.
Releasing.
He didn’t want her to go, didn’t want to return alone to that party with its confetti-colored balloons and forced gaiety, with Lakota Lang and her spunky ambition.
Instead of letting Fiona escape, he took her by the elbow,
away from the crowd to an empty table, where he pulled out a chair for her. With cautious acceptance, she sat, leaning her elbows on the surface, her dress sleeves spreading over the linen like yawning black ink stains.
“What game?” Fiona asked, as he took his own seat.
“The battle of wills between our clients. Or haven’t you noticed the storm brewing?”
“Oh, I caught a groan of thunder in the air, all right.”
He leaned toward her, close enough so he could feel the wisp of her clothing as it moved against his thigh. “Usually I leave the baby-sitting to the managers, but with these two, I think reconnaissance might not be a bad idea.”
And, he added silently, he kind of felt protective toward Lakota Lang. There was still some innocence wrapped in all that tight satin and bravado.
Her date, Brendon Fillmore, was another of Sean’s clients. It seemed logical to get both of them some exposure by setting the two strangers up for the night. Brendon’s TV show had just been canceled and he needed to stay in the public eye. Lakota needed to cultivate a prime-time image because, with a few night-slot TV cameos under her belt, that’s where her career was headed. Up.
The kid definitely needed some of Sean’s guidance, not that Fiona had to know this.
Her leg moved beneath the table. Back and forth, teasing him with the languid flow of imagination: Her bare thigh skimming up the side of his, her hips grinding against him…
He’d gotten a taste of her body in the hall, when she’d tried to get by him. If he didn’t know better, he would have said that Fiona’s incidental contact had been just that—a happy accident. But Sean did know better.
She was playing with him.
Voice as low as a murmur of night wind, she said, “I like the way you think. I want to get a feel for how those two react to each other, just to see if we need to worry about a PR explosion. We don’t want Linc and Lakota making a scene—unless it’s during Flamingo Beach, of course.”
“Right.” Sean glided his forefinger beneath Fiona’s chin, directing her gaze across the room. “Watch.”
Her breath sighed over the skin of his hand as he lingered, then stroked the side of her neck on his way down.
Damn, he wanted so much more.
Restraining himself—he was on the clock, not a mattress—Sean looked across the room, as well. There, near the very visible dance floor, Lakota and Lincoln worked the crowd, mingling with fans and the press, their backs to each other.
“You have to know they’re aware of every move the other one makes,” Fiona said.
Just as Sean, himself, was. Every time she swayed her leg so it breezed near his, every time she inhaled and exhaled, for God’s sake.
She continued. “What are we watching for?”
“Wicked glances, a foot stuck out just in time to trip another body. They’re getting closer and closer to each other. My sixth sense is vibrating.”
And that wasn’t all.
She turned to him, her voice close enough to buzz around his ear. “I bet Lakota strikes first.”
“Lakota? She’s got no reason.” He turned his head, bringing his lips closer to Fiona’s cheek. “Lincoln’s the one who got dumped. I’m sure he’s up for a little revenge.”
“Linc?” Her warm laugh sizzled his skin. “He’s harmless. She’s the one who’s almost quaking with pent-up hostility. Look at the way she keeps flicking a gaze over her shoulder. She knows he’s there, can probably hear his jokes, and I’m betting that his popularity with the fans is killing her.”
He tensed, wanting to defend his client, but Fiona’s knee had just scratched along his thigh, a slow and deliberate move leaving a wake of burning need in his belly.
Concentration wasn’t in the cards tonight.
“Lakota’s got enough confidence to keep Lincoln from getting to her,” he said.
She slanted her body toward him, bringing her knee back into contact with his body. She nudged it over the top of his shin, then in between his legs.
In reaction, he trailed a hand over her thigh, resting it on that naughty knee. She laughed, a throaty touché from the master.
“Lakota’s going to be the first one to cause trouble,” she said. “Mark my words.”
He glanced at his client. Slinky Versace dress, bed-head red hair, siren makeup. Sure, he wouldn’t put it past Lakota Lang to mess with Lincoln Castle, but with Fiona’s thigh underneath his hand, with his thumb easing along the inside, seeking a hint of toned muscle, of moist acceptance, he wasn’t in a cut-and-dry mood.
He wanted amusement.
“Care to bet on that?” Sean asked, loyal to his client.
“What? That Lakota’s going to rile Lincoln first?” Her smile blossomed. “What’s the winner get?”
He pressed his hand higher, fingers creeping to her mid-thigh. Fiona stretched her leg, leaning into him, biting her lip and lowering her gaze in a steamy pause of expectation.
“When I win,” he said, “you’ll do a task of my bidding.”
“Or vice versa.”
She removed his touch by sweeping her leg over the other one, crossing them at the knees, keeping him out of further trouble.
A rusty laugh escaped him. “You think Lincoln will keep his cool and ignore Lakota.”
She sat a little straighter, and he could tell that she wasn’t quite as cocky as she wanted to let on.
“He never fails me,” she said.
The blood beat through his hands, filling their emptiness. What he’d give to cup her curves against his palms.
He leaned back in his chair, trying to pretend Fiona didn’t affect him. But the awareness between them was too potent to ignore.
It was bad form to be screwing a co-worker. But at this point, he didn’t care.
As he chided himself, he found that they didn’t have to wait long for the fireworks to start. A paparazzi photographer whom Sean had arranged to stir up some visibility for his clients appeared, urging the soap stars together for a picture. Lakota cozied up to Lincoln as if they were still lovers.
Pop! After the flash faded, she kept her hold on Lincoln’s tuxedo jacket. The man’s discomfort was clear—the pained expression, the wooden posture.
Sean perched on the edge of his chair, ready to swing into action if anything happened. The managers were at the stars’ sides in an instant, but not before Lincoln lost his cool and liberated himself by shrugging out of his jacket, tossing it over a still-clinging Lakota’s head.
As he stalked away, several photographers caught her flipping the clothing off her head and bundling into it, then rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if she’d been cold and Lincoln had lovingly loaned her some warmth.
Fiona made a sound of disgust. “You know she started that. Probably said something to goad him.”
“Hey,” Sean said, grinning. “The only evidence I saw was Lincoln’s tux flying through the air to land on my poor client. Quick thinking on her part, huh? She almost does our jobs for us. I’ll make sure Soap Opera Digest or US Magazine has a picture of Lakota in Lincoln’s jacket. I can see the caption now—‘She’s got his love to keep her warm!’”
“Spare me. I’ll arrange it so Lincoln is linked with Nicole Kidman, a much classier redhead.”
By the tone of her voice, he knew she wasn’t thrilled about losing this battle.
“I’ll ignore that slight and go easy on you,” he said. “What did the winner of our wager get? Oh, yeah. You have to cater to my whims.”
He paused, taking great pleasure at how her dark eyes widened, then narrowed.
A grin quirked his mouth. “Fetch me a drink. Whisky on the rocks.”
Fiona stiffened, apparently affronted by the command in his voice.
Sean lifted up his hands, such the good guy. “I could’ve called in a much more…interesting…prize.”
She hesitated, then swept a long look over his body, her gaze like feathers winging from his toes to his neck, leaving a trail of rough tickles.
“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “But this isn’t the end of it. I don’t like to lose.”
As she left, she winked, her thick eyelashes lending an air of wanton flirtation.
He watched her walk away, unable to tear his eyes off her, off the clingy material of her dress and how it molded those thighs he’d explored, that ass.
There was no way he’d get through this night, not without some kind of sexual release. And if getting her into bed made for a tougher workplace tomorrow, then that’s how it’d be. He was willing to sacrifice p.c. office protocol for Fiona.
God, she’d be worth it.
This had never happened before, him pursuing someone in the office. Sure, there had been the occasional loaded gesture with an administrative assistant, with a client. But he’d never crossed the line professionally.
Until now.
Work had always mattered too much. He’d spent years being myopic in his pursuit of success. But lately…
Lately it didn’t seem to matter as much as the fulfillment of all the fantasies he’d conjured about Fiona Cruz since she’d va-va-voomed into his life yesterday.
Soon, she returned with a flute of champagne for her, a martini for him.
He lifted an eyebrow as she sat. “Not whisky.”
A tart smile. “The occasion—and that hot tux—calls for a more sophisticated cocktail. Hollywood’s all about image.”
“You didn’t follow my orders. That means you still owe me.”
“Do I?” She watched him over the rim of her glass as she took a sip.
He shrugged, swigged from his drink. Not bad. She knew his tastes, didn’t she?
“You always rebel against authority in this way?” he asked.
“I told you, Lakota was the instigator. You didn’t win anything.”
And she didn’t like losing. “Go on. We both know better.”
She oh-so-gently set down her flute, so slowly that Sean knew he was in trouble.
