too.”
“A few minutes ago.”
His smile tilted. “And you came looking for me.”
Her laughter was the kind no man ever wanted directed at him.
“You wish.”
Such disdain. Such hauteur. Such ego. It was enough to change his plans.
“Yes, I do. You saved me the trouble of looking for you.”
He’d surprised her. He could see it in the swift narrowing of her eyes.
“You were looking for me?”
Another flashbulb went off. He looked in its direction, saw the camera, saw a couple of cellphones aimed at them. Still smiling, Luca closed the couple of inches separating them and clasped her elbow.
He felt her stiffen. She was going to jerk free, or at least she was going to try, and there was no way he’d let that happen.
Deliberately, he tightened his grasp.
“Lights, camera, action,” he said, very softly, bending his head so that his lips were almost at her ear. “Or don’t they say that in your world?”
“Whatever do you think you’re doing, Bellini?”
“What I’m doing is saving your ass, McKenna. Put that ego of yours away and trot out what little you know of good manners. In other words, smile and look as if you’re thrilled to have found me…unless, of course, you want to be on every cheap gossip blog by midnight.”
She glared at him. Then he saw her throw a quick look over his shoulder, saw knowledge of their growing audience register in her eyes.
“Shit,” she whispered.
He laughed. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“Oh, Luca,” she said gaily, “that’s so amusing!”
She threw back her head and laughed. He imagined dipping his head lower and pressing his mouth to the elegant curve of her throat.
It was an image he didn’t need right now, and he forced it out of his head and replaced it with a grin.
“I thought you’d like it,” he said.
Then, still holding her elbow, he led her through what was now a fair-sized group of gawkers, into the ballroom and to his table.
* * *
There were six other people seated with them.
Two psychiatrists and their spouses, plus a portly man and his seemingly anorexic wife.
The shrinks—one male, one female—were politely reserved.
The portly man was effusively friendly.
“Jim Holland,” he said. “From Staten Island. This is my wife, Verna.”
Luca shook hands all around. So did Cheyenne. He searched for a conversational gambit, thought of saying that though he’d lived in New York, on and off, for years, this was the first time he’d met someone who actually lived on Staten Island, but caution suggested that might not go over well.
Besides, he didn’t need a conversation starter.
He had the only one that mattered, seated next to him.
Cheyenne was what everyone wanted to talk about; she was the person they wanted to talk to. Not even the evening’s entertainment—a famous rock band and its even more famous lead singer—were enough of a distraction to change their focus of attention.
They all recognized her. Even the shrinks seemed excited to meet her—or, at least, as excited as Luca figured people who spent their lives trying to seem unflappable could get.
“I saw you on one of those huge Times Square billboards,” one of them said.
“Oh, yes,” his wife added. “In that soap ad. What was the brand?”
“Gardenia Body Shampoo,” Cheyenne said politely.
Gardenia Body Shampoo. Luca remembered the scent of her naked skin. Was that what she’d smelled of? Gardenias?
“And you did those jeans ads,” Verna Holland said. “I bought a pair.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Of course, they didn’t look on me the way they’d looked on you.”
Nothing would look on any woman the way it would look on Cheyenne, Luca thought, although what she’d always look best in was her own naked skin.
“I heard a rumor that you’re donating your ranch in Tennessee to the organization,” Shrink Number Two’s husband said.
“Texas,” Cheyenne said, smiling politely.
“Do you raise horses?”
“No, I
“A few minutes ago.”
His smile tilted. “And you came looking for me.”
Her laughter was the kind no man ever wanted directed at him.
“You wish.”
Such disdain. Such hauteur. Such ego. It was enough to change his plans.
“Yes, I do. You saved me the trouble of looking for you.”
He’d surprised her. He could see it in the swift narrowing of her eyes.
“You were looking for me?”
Another flashbulb went off. He looked in its direction, saw the camera, saw a couple of cellphones aimed at them. Still smiling, Luca closed the couple of inches separating them and clasped her elbow.
He felt her stiffen. She was going to jerk free, or at least she was going to try, and there was no way he’d let that happen.
Deliberately, he tightened his grasp.
“Lights, camera, action,” he said, very softly, bending his head so that his lips were almost at her ear. “Or don’t they say that in your world?”
“Whatever do you think you’re doing, Bellini?”
“What I’m doing is saving your ass, McKenna. Put that ego of yours away and trot out what little you know of good manners. In other words, smile and look as if you’re thrilled to have found me…unless, of course, you want to be on every cheap gossip blog by midnight.”
She glared at him. Then he saw her throw a quick look over his shoulder, saw knowledge of their growing audience register in her eyes.
“Shit,” she whispered.
He laughed. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“Oh, Luca,” she said gaily, “that’s so amusing!”
She threw back her head and laughed. He imagined dipping his head lower and pressing his mouth to the elegant curve of her throat.
It was an image he didn’t need right now, and he forced it out of his head and replaced it with a grin.
“I thought you’d like it,” he said.
Then, still holding her elbow, he led her through what was now a fair-sized group of gawkers, into the ballroom and to his table.
* * *
There were six other people seated with them.
Two psychiatrists and their spouses, plus a portly man and his seemingly anorexic wife.
The shrinks—one male, one female—were politely reserved.
The portly man was effusively friendly.
“Jim Holland,” he said. “From Staten Island. This is my wife, Verna.”
Luca shook hands all around. So did Cheyenne. He searched for a conversational gambit, thought of saying that though he’d lived in New York, on and off, for years, this was the first time he’d met someone who actually lived on Staten Island, but caution suggested that might not go over well.
Besides, he didn’t need a conversation starter.
He had the only one that mattered, seated next to him.
Cheyenne was what everyone wanted to talk about; she was the person they wanted to talk to. Not even the evening’s entertainment—a famous rock band and its even more famous lead singer—were enough of a distraction to change their focus of attention.
They all recognized her. Even the shrinks seemed excited to meet her—or, at least, as excited as Luca figured people who spent their lives trying to seem unflappable could get.
“I saw you on one of those huge Times Square billboards,” one of them said.
“Oh, yes,” his wife added. “In that soap ad. What was the brand?”
“Gardenia Body Shampoo,” Cheyenne said politely.
Gardenia Body Shampoo. Luca remembered the scent of her naked skin. Was that what she’d smelled of? Gardenias?
“And you did those jeans ads,” Verna Holland said. “I bought a pair.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Of course, they didn’t look on me the way they’d looked on you.”
Nothing would look on any woman the way it would look on Cheyenne, Luca thought, although what she’d always look best in was her own naked skin.
“I heard a rumor that you’re donating your ranch in Tennessee to the organization,” Shrink Number Two’s husband said.
“Texas,” Cheyenne said, smiling politely.
“Do you raise horses?”
“No, I
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