Читать книгу Courting Disaster - Kathleen O'Reilly - Страница 9

Elizabeth found her cousin Melanie riding in the paddock, sitting on top of a big gray with flashing white stockings who looked speedier than Elizabeth ever wanted to travel. However, Melanie was of a different mind. She wanted to ride faster than some nuclear-powered rocket, and Elizabeth wished her all the luck in the world with that.

Everybody had a gift. Elizabeth could sing, and Melanie could talk to horses. Maybe not in words, but when you saw Melanie with a horse, you knew that two-way communicating was going on. Melanie would murmur sweet nothings to the Thoroughbreds, and when they were out on the track, those sweet nothings could make them move like nobody’s business. Baby talk, was how Elizabeth used to tease her cousin. After Melanie started winning her races, Elizabeth stopped her teasing.

For a few seconds she watched her cousin ride, noticing the way the horse and the rider moved together, and noticing the telltale droop in Melanie’s smile. At that disturbing sight, Eliza-beth squared her shoulders and pushed all the bad things out of her mind, including the inopportune car-crush—along with the correspondingly inopportune, hot-looking car-crusher. Out of her mind, and hopefully out of her loins. Briskly, she waved, looking just as bright and perky as a woman who had not just wrecked a car that cost more than God, or lusted after a man that she had no business feeling the heat for. “Hey, cuz. Ready to race?”

Melanie’s mouth curved up at the corners, and she dismounted, hopping down to the dirt. “Bet you twenty I can beat you out to the ridge.”

Elizabeth snickered. “I don’t bet with jockeys. I’m absolutely certain there’s something against that in the Bible. Don’t know where to find it, or specifically what it says, but I’m comfortable in my decision.”

“Spoilsport,” answered Melanie, pulling a face. She hollered at one of the stable hands, asking for another mount for Elizabeth—hopefully something not quite so zippy. Elizabeth found herself more than satisfied when the man led out a pretty little broodmare, soft brown with a coal-black mane. Courtin’Cristy was what they called her. A pretty name for a pretty horse.

Gingerly, Elizabeth climbed into the saddle, taking a deep breath and adjusting to the discrepancy in heights.

The stable hand opened the gate and the two cousins took off “racing,” which was Elizabeth’s word for a nice, steady trot, curving among the sturdy branches of the black walnut trees. Riding with her cousin through the hills and valleys with the wind at her back, Elizabeth felt like a kid once again.

The afternoon was crisp and cool, the last of the bright yellow leaves valiantly fighting against the November wind, carpeting the grass in a patchwork quilt of red and gold. In the distance, the smoky smell of burning leaves drifted in the air as the rituals of the first true cold snap of autumn commenced.

The ridge overlooking the winding valley had always been their place to go, a place to forget all the troubles of the world. They pulled up in a plush field of bluegrass, perfect for sitting and watching the clouds skate by. Melanie sighed, her face not nearly as happy as Elizabeth wished it were.

Quest Stables was in serious financial trouble, and to Elizabeth’s way of thinking, it was time for the Prestons to face facts. Their prize Thoroughbred, Leopold’s Legacy, had been pulled from the racing circuit because his pedigree was in doubt, and until the Prestons could get the mystery of his parentage resolved, things weren’t so rosy.

“Melanie, you should be happier. Your brother’s getting hitched day after tomorrow, but you don’t look happy, and Robbie’s going to see right through those fakey smiles. I keep wanting to help, y’all keep turning me down, and it’s getting real old, real fast. However, because I am determined, I’m not giving up, and by the way, how are y’all paying for this wedding? At least let me help with that.”

“Grandpa’s being stubborn. He put some money down on a race in Saratoga, won big, enough to cover the wedding, but I thought Dad was going to blow a gasket.”

Elizabeth clucked her tongue. “And now Uncle Hugh’s been driven to gambling…”

Melanie snorted inelegantly, a sound echoed by the mare behind her. “Grandpa isn’t driven to anything he doesn’t want to do. Elizabeth, do you remember when you were in bad financial straits and needed help? I tried to help, and what did you tell me?”

“I didn’t say anything,” lied Elizabeth.

Melanie glared, and Elizabeth felt a twinge of remorse. So Elizabeth repeated her words in a quiet whisper. “I said I didn’t want charity, not from my family, not from anybody. But this is different.”

Melanie nodded, in a completely annoying fashion. “And you made it all on your own, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” answered Elizabeth, wishing Melanie didn’t have to be so…right.

“So, why do you think the Prestons are any different?”

The Prestons. Elizabeth sighed, because there was that dividing line again, like the Mason-Dixon line, the Great Wall of China or the Berlin Wall, before they tore it down. The Prestons were her family, God bless ’em. Melanie’s momma and Elizabeth’s momma were sisters, but Elizabeth and Diane weren’t part of the inner circle. It wasn’t something that was rude or snooty or mean-spirited at all, but geographical instead. The Prestons lived right outside Lexington, and Elizabeth had grown up in Tennessee. Between the mad dash from one singing gig to another, guitar and singing lessons, and the odd jobs to pay the bills, it was only during the holidays that Elizabeth spent time with her cousins, and sometimes, on a rare golden occasion, a whole summer week.

Those hot summer days were the best, riding horses until she could barely walk, eating watermelon on the porch, Brent and Andrew trying to outwrestle each other, and giggling with Melanie over Robbie’s goofy little-brother antics. On those days, Elizabeth had watched her cousins with greedy eyes. She wanted that warm closeness of the Prestons. That after-dinner moment when two thousand conversations were all going on at once, and it didn’t really matter that nobody could hear a word. The Preston family kept together through thick and thin and that was all that counted.

Staying with the Prestons had once again reminded Elizabeth of what she had missed growing up. The grass was always greener, especially in Kentucky. She blew out a wistful breath.

A few feet away, the two horses were grazing under the scraggly canopies of the bur oaks that dotted the countryside. Melanie’s mount, Something to Talk About—now that was a true character. The gray was showing off and prancing around, as if he just knew people were watching.

Horses were the Prestons’ lifeblood, and now that blood was slowly being squeezed off. If the Prestons truly thought Elizabeth was just going to pack up her marbles and go home, they had another think coming.

“I have the means, you know it, and y’all are family.”

Furiously Melanie shook her head, short blond waves flying from the force. “No. I think it’s nice of you to offer, Elizabeth, but we’re not angling for handouts. We’re not that desperate yet. I don’t want to hear another word.”

“I want to help,” Elizabeth insisted.

“Elizabeth, you sing. You don’t know anything about horses or stables or financial matters. You help out by being here. Let somebody else take care of the rest.”

Elizabeth sighed, throwing a piece of grass at her cousin, wishing it had magical powers that could make her family see sense, instead of having Melanie look at her as though she were some space alien come down from Planet Helpless.

“I’m capable of doing a whole lot more,” she said, but her cousin went right on talking, as if Elizabeth hadn’t said a word.

“Yeah, like getting into car wrecks. I heard about your accident in front of the house. At first, I didn’t believe it was you. I mean, it’s not like you drive fast enough to do any damage to anybody, but then they said Demetri ran into you.” Melanie started to laugh, and Elizabeth could see no humor in this situation and thought it was downright…tacky to laugh at someone who had suffered such a tragic misfortune.

“It’s no cause for laughing, Melanie,” she answered, wounded, wounded to the quick.

“You don’t know,” answered her cousin, gasping between giggles.

“What don’t I know?”

“Demetri Lucas. He’s a race-car driver.”

Demetri Lucas. Race-car driver.

Oh, she didn’t want to know his name. She preferred to keep him as the hot-looking driver with the heavy hands and the lead foot.

A race-car driver, and didn’t that beat all? Elizabeth didn’t like car-racing. Cars were tools, a means to get from one place to another, not some durn-fool bleacher sport that took away good Sunday-afternoon television programming. “Driving cars. Now isn’t that the most useless pastime ever? I mean, why in heaven’s name does anyone want to zoom around that track, flying round and round, wheeling around the corners, and oh, Lord, I’m making myself queasy just thinking about it.”

Melanie stopped her giggles and her eyes got that sly little gleam that indicated she wanted to pry. “So what’d you think?”

“I didn’t think anything,” Elizabeth answered, lying through her teeth. “What’s there to think?”

“Elizabeth, you’re not blind.”

“And I’m not dumb, neither.”

Melanie nodded once, in that smug, supercilious way of people who know they’ve discovered the truth when someone doesn’t want them to discover the truth, because sometimes the truth is better left undiscovered. “He’s hot.”

“If you like that sort of look,” answered Elizabeth, idly strumming her fingers through the grass, because she didn’t usually go for the dark-and-dangerous look in men. Her normal type was clean-cut and upstanding. Men who took “no” for an answer and didn’t quibble.

“Every woman likes that sort of look.”

Elizabeth looked up and arched a brow, smug and supercilious, too. “Even you?”

“Oh, no.”

“Still nursing a hurt?” she asked, because Melanie had fallen for the wrong sort once. It seemed like every woman was destined to be a fool once.

Melanie shook her head. “Older and wiser, just like you, I bet. Are you still nursing a hurt?”

There was forgiveness, and then there was spotted-dog stupid. Elizabeth blew out a breath. She had been snookered once—and by the man who sired her—but now she was older and wiser, too.

Sadly she checked her watch and sighed. Playtime was over. She walked over to her mount, leaves snapping under her feet. Gently she rubbed the velvety nose, letting the mare know that even though she wasn’t as fast as the colt, she was still special to Elizabeth—especially since she was taking her back over the ridge to the stables.

“Courtin’ Cristy, you’re a nice lady, aren’t you?” she crooned, the horse neighing softly.

Melanie nodded. “She is, too. Not a mean bone in her body.”

“She should have a nicer name. Flower or Buttercup, with those flirty eyelashes of hers.”

Melanie shot Elizabeth a telling look. “I don’t name them. I just ride them. And speaking of which, I do have a job to do.”

Elizabeth took a last look at the long, sweeping valley. “Don’t remind me. I’ve got a meeting in the city tonight. Album covers. You would not believe all the hoop-di-do that goes into deciding what goes on a cover. I could tell you stories that would curl your hair.”

“You’re going to leave? I thought you were staying at the house until after the wedding?”

“I’ll be back late tonight, Melanie.You think you can sneak out a bottle of apple wine and we can sit on the veranda and gossip?”

Melanie raised shocked eyebrows. “I don’t drink apple wine anymore, Elizabeth, only Chardonnay. Do you?”

Elizabeth was shamed. “No,” she lied. Three lies in one day. It was a world record, but Elizabeth knew exactly where the blame belonged.

The hot-looking driver with the heavy hands and the lead foot.

“So did Robbie invite him to the wedding?” she asked, the words flying out of her mouth before she could stop them.

Melanie leaped into the saddle, as graceful as a ballet dancer, and waggled a warning finger at Elizabeth. “Be careful, Elizabeth. That snowy-white reputation that you’re so proud of can disappear like that.” Melanie snapped her fingers, as if Elizabeth couldn’t comprehend the graphic on her own.

“Like I’d do something stupid with that man? You know me, cuz. Cautious is my middle name, my first name and my last name, too,” she answered, dismissing the idea, all while new ideas were seeping into her mind, ideas that were distinctly uncautious.

She shook her head, flicking all those ideas out of there.

Hopefully this time, it’d work for good.

Whenever there was a wedding in the works, the wind blew a little softer, the nightingales sounded a little prettier, and even Seamus, Hugh’s Irish wolfhound, walked around with a bounce in his step and a song in his bark. The Preston household might have been dreary lately, the pall of the scandal touching everything in ways that Elizabeth had never imagined, but in the hectic days leading up to Robbie and Amanda’s wedding, things were perkier and livelier. Betsy, the capable manager who ran the house, had the staff take out the best china, guest rooms were dusted, the silver was polished, and everything was set out for Jenna Preston’s white-glove inspection.

That evening, when Elizabeth got home from the meeting in town, she opted to do a little inspecting of her own. Said subject of inspection? One Demetri Lucas, whose car she had recently demolished, and whose image kept cropping up into her mind, and other places that she didn’t want any man cropping up into. Hopefully a hard dose of reality would help matters. After climbing atop the fluffy yellow guest room bed, she studied her laptop screen, and stumbled across the first of many, many, many damning sins. The most recent being that he had just lost a key endorsement from Valencia Products because he’d been boffing royalty. Elizabeth sniffed contemptuously.

Married?

Royalty?

Not only was he irresponsible, but he was also plain stupid. Thinking he wouldn’t get caught? Durn. The man might as well be blond.

To be fair, he did have some business sense, but it was that hard-nosed, hard-hearted shark behavior that Elizabeth didn’t like. Besides his race-car driving, Demetri Lucas bought and sold companies the way other men played the slots. He didn’t care, didn’t participate, only signed on the bottom line, made a bucketload of cash and then moved on to either the next venture, or the next princess, whichever caught his roving eye first.

And apparently his roving eye had been caught many, many times.

She was cursing the man six ways to Sunday when her cell phone rang.

“Liz?” Her manager was the only person who called her Liz. Thank God for small favors, because Liz was a shortcut name; it didn’t have nearly the regal grandeur of Elizabeth. And at five foot four, Elizabeth wanted all the regal grandeur she could get.

“Tobey?” she said, kicking back on the bed. “What are you calling for? If you’re calling me about the album cover, I’m not going to listen. I told you tonight that I didn’t like that last mockup of the cover, and I meant it. I sing country, not heavy metal. Use something prettier than black. What’s wrong with yellow? Or pink? Or maybe one of those soft teals? I think—”

“Liz.”

Elizabeth stopped. “What?”

“I’m not calling about the cover. They’re going to change the background color.”

Elizabeth blew out a breath. “Well thank heavens for that. So why are we chatting when I’m supposed to be on vacation?”

“I got another call from the shampoo company Softsilk. They’re determined to get you. The woman said they have a new line coming out next year. Soft, sexy, womanly. Those were their words. They want you to do the spots.”

“Why did you call me with this? I sing. That’s it. I don’t want to do commercials or product placements, or be some shill for some shampoo that will probably make my hair fall out. I told you no the last five times you asked me. No, no, no. What I use on my head, what I put on my face, what jeans I wear, what car I drive is nobody’s business but mine, and I’ll be damned if Elizabeth Innis is going to help sell somebody else’s products. I’m not telling you something that you don’t already know, Tobey. Why are you calling, and this time, please tell me the truth.”

“Frank called. He heard you were in Kentucky and thought it’d be good for you to do a local concert the week after next. It’s for the University of Louisville, the Wednesday night before their homecoming game. Skew your demographics younger.”

Frank was the manger of Five Star Records, Elizabeth’s label, and when Frank told Tobey to jump, Tobey asked how high. Elizabeth didn’t mind, that was Tobey’s job, but Elizabeth wasn’t a business person. She was an artist. And everybody knew that artists were temperamental. Even though Elizabeth wasn’t temperamental, that didn’t mean she couldn’t pretend when it worked to her advantage.

“Tobey. I’m on vacation. My cousin is getting married day after tomorrow and I’m singing in the wedding. I need this break. I’ve been on tour for the last twelve months. Now, I love my band, but do you know how many hotels that is? Do you know how many frequent flier miles that is? More than I can count, Tobey, but I bet it’s not more than you can count. I bet you can tell me exactly how many frequent flier miles I’ve logged, can’t you? Let me make this clear so you can understand. I’m not doing any concerts here. I’m tired. Can’t you hear the tension in my voice? I don’t know why you can’t, ’cause this phone connection sounds pretty good to me.”

“Frank’s got something lined up, Liz.”

Elizabeth glared at the phone, which did absolutely no good, but it made it her feel better. “Let me repeat what I said, because I’m thinking this phone connection must not be as crisp as I thought. I’m not doing any concerts here. Not one. I’m tired. This is my family time, and nothing gets between me and my family time.”

“Frank already lined it up,” he answered, just as if he hadn’t heard a single word that she’d said.

Elizabeth snorted. “Well, tell him to unline it up. I’m on vacation. It’s three weeks, Tobey, not three years. Nothing trumps family for me. You know that.”

“The money’s good, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth humphed into the phone. “Do you think that matters? If it’s going to start mattering to me, then I need to fire you, because I’m not making as much money as you’re telling me I am. Do I need to fire you, Tobey? Don’t tell me yes, because you’re about as L.A. as I can handle. Everybody told me to get a Nashville agent, but I liked you, even if you were L.A, but maybe they were right, Tobey. Maybe I should get a Nashville agent.”

“Don’t make me go back to Frank and tell him no,” he begged.

“Go back to Frank and tell him no.”

“Oh, Elizabeth…” Which he only called her when he was really, really, really up a creek.

“Oh, Tobey…” she said, and she knew she was starting to get all soft, and she didn’t want to get all soft. She needed to be tough and hard-edged with a spine that wouldn’t break, no matter how much battering it took. Elizabeth drew in a deep, strength-injecting breath, happy to feel the steel return. “Now you listen—”

Suddenly she stopped, a lightbulb flashing in her head. “How much money are we talking about?” Elizabeth asked carefully.

Tobey named a figure that raised her brows, and her brows— which were perfectly arched—didn’t usually rise that far. That was all it took for her to change her mind. “Sign me up, Tobey. I’ll do it. Get the band down on the next plane out of Nashville. Actually, not the next plane, but maybe Monday after next. At least let’s give them the weekend off, then we can have two days’ worth of rehearsal.”

“Why did you change your mind so fast?” he asked suspiciously. Rightly so. A wise one, that Tobey. That was why she liked him.

“Might want to buy something,” she hedged, even though the plan was already formulating in her head.

“Couldn’t you give me a hint?” he asked.

“Whoa. Gotta go, Tobey. This phone is breaking up. Darn cells. Hate the things.” Elizabeth made crackling noises into the phone and then snapped it closed. A concert would be the perfect solution and hopefully the Prestons would think so, too.

“It looks rather deserted, don’t you think?” asked Oliver Wentworth, squinting in the direction of the empty pasture, and Demetri tried to see the stables through Oliver’s eyes.

Oh, yeah, the grounds of the Preston homestead were impressive. A thousand acres, perfect for the Thoroughbred horses that were being trained there. At one time, there had been over five hundred horses stabled on the premises. Today the numbers were dwindling. The practice track stood silent, only a few horses wandering in the pasture, grazing quietly.

Demetri took it all in, and shook his head sadly. He didn’t want to see Quest through Oliver’s eyes.

Next to him, Oliver leaned against the wooden fence and looked around, completely unimpressed. “So this is what a horse farm looks like?” he asked.

“Normally Quest is a little busier,” Demetri answered, feeling the need to defend the proud stables because of course, soon “Oliver” would be stabling horses here, as well, but they had a long way to go, and Demetri was going to have to work this slowly. Oliver was from England, and his idea of horses ran toward polo ponies and fox hunts, not Kentucky Thoroughbreds.

At first, Oliver hadn’t wanted to come to the barbecue, but Demetri had casually mentioned that there might be women there—single, attractive and lonely women—which immensely perked up Oliver, who was tall and golden haired, with a playboy’s eye.

When Oliver had made the team last year, the press had kidded that Demetri was like an older brother to him—a lousy older brother. People expected a lot from the elder sibling. They expected responsibility, maturity, vigilance and watchfulness. Demetri had none of those qualities. He never had, and he wished that people would stop expecting it from him. No matter how wild his antics, or how reckless his driving, they still expected more. Idiots. At one time, he’d had a younger brother, Seth. Demetri had come up short for Seth, and he hoped that Oliver wasn’t watching too closely, because he worried that someday he would come up short for Oliver, as well.

Demetri had yet to tell Oliver his grand plan to have Oliver stable some Thoroughbreds at Quest, because Oliver’s first priority was always Oliver, and Demetri had yet to figure out an angle, or possibly a debt obligation, which he could hold over Oliver’s head. But he would. Eventually.

Oliver grinned. “Fascinating, now can we go have dinner?”

“You’re hungry?” Demetri felt vaguely disappointed that Oliver hadn’t gone all cowboy at the sight of horses. It seemed…un-American, which, considering Oliver was British, wasn’t a total surprise. Still, Demetri had hoped.

“I’m not hungry for food, old man. I’m only here for the women.”

Demetri slapped him on the back, not hungry, either—except for her.

Elizabeth.

A smile crossed his face, and he could feel the burn inside him. “Watch and learn, Oliver. Watch and learn.”

It took a foolish woman’s heart to skip a beat when she saw six-foot-something worth of trouble walk out onto the manicured lawn. The barbecue dinner for Amanda and Robbie had gone along smooth as molasses, but then he walked outside, and Elizabeth found herself looking, which turned into ogling, which turned into lusting, and it was all downhill from there.

Dressed in dark jeans, exactly like ninety-nine percent of the other men, he still stood out. He was handsome, but there were other nice-looking men here, too. No, there was something distinctly different about Demetri Lucas. Some dangerous song that called to every woman in the place, some unspoken melody that played havoc with the female senses. Greece is where the gossip sites had said he was born, and now Elizabeth understood the appeal of exotic, foreign men.

His face was proud and arrogant, as if he didn’t care what anyone thought, and Elizabeth mused to herself that well, if you looked like that, you didn’t have to care, because the women were already lapping it up in spades. She could tell. They’d walk by him, a flirty gleam in their eyes, hoping to earn a smile or even better a touch, but Mr. Demetri Lucas was too busy looking at Elizabeth.

There was a dark gleam in those appraising eyes, as though she were some prime piece of horseflesh, rather than the bubble-brained woman who smashed up his car.

What was even worse than that was the shiver in her arms, the compulsive need to lick her lips and the general twitch under her skin that made her nervous as a twelve-year-old.

Frankly, that wasn’t quite the truth. That wicked gleam made her feel every single bit of her twenty-eight years, reminding Elizabeth that she was long past puberty, knew the real story about the birds and the bees and had woman parts that were designed to fit a man’s parts—perfectly. Although she’d recorded a few songs that delved into the shadowy mystery of passion, they’d been written by someone else, because Elizabeth had never felt the burn herself. She had never known that long lick of desire between her shoulder blades. Never truly felt that heavy throb between her thighs.

Until now.

Restlessly she stalked around the yard like a stray dog looking for a place to land. She moved from one place to another, always trying to escape the magnetic draw of his eyes, but never quite succeeding. Elizabeth pulled up a lawn chair and talked with Melanie, with Uncle Thomas, and Aunt Jenna, chattering like a blue jay, all nonsense, because if she didn’t talk, she’d find herself looking in his direction, checking to see if he was still watching.

Which he was.

Elizabeth shivered again.

Oliver was already in his element at the party. The junior driver for Sterling Motor Cars was standing next to Demetri, and in less than an hour, he’d met one long-legged blonde, one brunette with sultry eyes and one redhead with pouty red lips. Still he wasn’t satisfied. Oliver loved them all with passion rarely seen in Britain, his stunts nearly, but not quite, eclipsing Demetri.

From across the way, Hugh met his eyes, and Demetri nodded once, lifting his beer. If Hugh had noticed the way Demetri’s attention kept slipping toward Elizabeth, he showed no sign of it. In the large crowd, it was unlikely, and Demetri’s attention slipped toward her once again.

Oliver saw where Demetri was looking, and nudged him in the ribs. “Do you know who that one is?”

Demetri frowned. “She’s one of the Prestons,” he said, sounding as if he knew exactly who she was.

“It’s Elizabeth Innis. Country-and-western singer. Her last eight records went platinum. Pity she’s not your type,” commented Oliver, his wandering eyes firmly fixed in Elizabeth’s direction.

“I didn’t know I had a type,” said Demetri, stepping in between Oliver’s wandering eyes and the country-and-western singer that Hugh—who was his friend—had warned him off.

Oliver sidestepped Demetri neatly. “That white dress isn’t just for show. Pure as the lamb, but eyes that promise so much more. Sexy, but innocent enough to drive a man wild with anticipation. The advertisers have been after her in droves since she first went platinum, but she consistently tells them no. I think even Valencia was trying to get her to sell some toothpaste or shampoo or something. She told them no, too.”

“Definitely not my type,” said Demetri with a regretful sigh, but wishing he could change types—for a little while.

Oliver grinned as if he could read his mind. “What a shame. Why, if you were to hook up with someone like her, we’d have sponsors plying us with money left and right. Advertisers love that happily-ever-after fairy-tale world that she sings about.”

“Why don’t you go into advertising?” asked Demetri, because Oliver lived to manipulate the press, always thinking of new and better ways to play games. At twenty-two, Oliver was too young to know that the man who lived by the media, died by the media. Demetri knew it, only he usually didn’t care.

“I hate the pesky buggers, but a man has to survive, and until I get your notoriety, then I’ll content myself with my little machinations.”

“That’s fame, not notoriety,” corrected Demetri.

“You say tomato, I say, how do they say it in Kentucky? Horse pucky. Now, if you took up with a woman like that, it would benefit the team immensely,” said Oliver, nodding back in Elizabeth’s direction.

Demetri shook his head regretfully, his eyes never leaving Elizabeth. “When I look at her, I’m not thinking about a PR opportunity.”

Oliver quirked a golden brow. “Even better.”

Demetri knew Oliver’s bent for trouble, and he felt the need to intervene. Prudent. Sensible. Responsible. “No, Oliver.”

Demetri’s teammate watched Elizabeth, a wicked gleam in his eyes, and he heaved an exaggerated sigh. “If you won’t, then maybe I should,” he said, with just enough lust in his voice to make Demetri look twice.

“Stay away from that one,” warned Demetri.

Oliver only smiled.