Читать книгу Insatiable - Julie Leto, Julie Leto - Страница 8

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.