Copyright © 2012 by Tamelia Tumlin
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Cover design by LFD Designs
** ONE **
Showing up in one of New York’s most prestigious hotels dressed like a tart had never been one of Sophie Westbrook’s ambitions. Yet here she was. G-string and all.
“Ready, boss?”
Sophie balanced her cramped legs inside her latest masterpiece – a giant three-tiered partially plastic and partially edible chocolate pop-out cake. She pulled a face even though her assistant, Felicity, couldn’t actually see her. “Right. Jumping out of a cake like a two-bit tart has always been a dream of mine.”
“It won’t be that bad.” Felicity snickered.
Sophie snorted at her assistant’s obvious delight in her predicament. “Not for you. You’re not the one packed in here like a hooker in a box. At The Rinaldi of all places. The Rinaldi!”
Great Pete! Foreign leaders, billionaires, movie stars – anybody who was somebody – frequented The Rinaldi. And those somebodies probably wouldn’t find humor in her upcoming performance. Quite frankly, neither did she.
But, that wasn’t the reason she was in such a tither.
Sophie squirmed inside the confining plastic. Beads of sweat trickled down her neck into the valley of her exposed cleavage. Billionaires and movie stars didn’t make her nervous. She had hobnobbed with the best of them all her life and wasn’t the least bit intimidated by their holier than thou attitude. Of course, she didn’t necessarily care to parade around half-naked in front of them either, but she certainly wasn’t intimidated.
It was the mere thought of going back in the same hotel where she’d made a complete and utter fool out of herself six years earlier that had her insides in turmoil. Of course, it hadn’t been called The Rinaldi back then. It had been called Olive Branch Resorts. Not that the name mattered. What did matter was the fact she’d picked up a stranger in the hotel bar and went back to his suite for the best mind-blowing sex she’d ever had in hopes of forgetting her sudden tragic loss. She never dreamed the sexy Italian who had charmed the pants off of her was actually half-owner of the hotel. Or course, once she had realized it, she’d made sure their paths never crossed again. In a city of a million plus people that hadn’t been too difficult.
Until now.
Her stomach tightened. What if she ran into–
Sophie gave herself a mental shake. No! Life wouldn’t be that cruel. Packed in a cake like a trollop was enough humiliation for one day. There was no way she could face him again on top of this. Seriously. The gods would really have to have it in for her for that to happen.
Besides, hadn’t she had called ahead to make sure he wouldn’t be there? Hadn’t the nice lady on the phone assured her that he would be out of the country this week on business before she’d even agreed to cater the Carmichael shindig? Really, she assured herself, there was no need to panic. The odds were in her favor this time. Sophie took seven deep breaths to calm her rapidly unraveling nerves. Surely even fate couldn’t botch this up. She’d taken every necessary precaution to make sure she never had to face Maximus Rinaldi again.
“You know, boss, I’d do this for you if–”
“I know, I know. You’d be in here if it weren’t for your asthma.” Sophie interrupted, shifting her weight inside the plastic mausoleum. She winced as a muscle contracted in her calf.
Wonderful. A Charlie horse was coming on.
She rubbed her calf and inhaled the succulent scents of imported dark chocolate surrounding her. Even the rich aroma couldn’t distract her from the fact she was about to make a fool of herself.
In the Rinaldi Hotel.
Again.
Sophie grimaced. Any other time she would have savored each cocoa whiff. After all chocolate is a girl’s best friend. But, apparently today chocolate had it in for her because in the span of a few short hours she had gone from self-made rising entrepreneur and owner of A Touch of Spice Catering to fate-made bimbo in a box.
Not exactly her best career move.
Sophie tugged at the barely-there royal blue sequined string top covering her ample breasts. A fruitless effort since she had too much bosom – even for a modest C cup – for the teensy triangles attached to even teensier strings. “Okay, girls,” she muttered patting her chest, “stay put. You don’t want to be responsible for some old geezer kicking the bucket.” She sent up a silent prayer that one of her girls wouldn’t accidentally make an appearance during her client’s seventieth birthday party.
“Remind me again exactly why I agreed to make a spectacle of myself.” Sophie raised her voice so Felicity could hear her through the plastic layered cake. She hoped she didn’t sound as deflated as she felt.
“Because you didn’t have the heart to disappoint an old man on what could be his last birthday.”
“Right. No disappointments. That’s me.” Sophie expelled a long sigh. Except for my father. Then again, the Good Lord Himself couldn’t have pleased that man. A lump formed in her throat. She immediately gulped it down. Been there, done that and bought the tee-shirt. No point in dwelling on the past. At least she finally found the good sense to stop trying to please that man. “Okay. Let’s get this show on the road.”
“We’re off then. Old Mr. Carmichael is waiting.” Felicity snickered again. The sound slid over Sophie’s raw nerves like sandpaper.
We’re off all right. Off the deep end.
Sophie felt the cart carrying her inside the cake move across the carpet, then heard a door creak open and slam behind her. Seconds later the cart stopped and the top tier – an edible red velvet chocolate cake – lifted. Sophie’s heart bungee-jumped to her stomach as an oversized chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling came into view. Oh, lord!
Showtime.
Here goes nothing. One. Two….
Sophie sprang up, resisting the urge to hold her girls in place, plastered on the best smile she could muster and shouted a cheery, “Happy Birthday!”
A distinctive wheezing noise caught her attention. She whipped her head around just in time to see Felicity’s brown eyes bulge like a choked Chihuahua. Her assistant grabbed her throat, wheezed again and made a mad dash toward the door.
Wonderful.
An asthma attack. Perfect timing, Felicity.
Guilt poked her in the stomach and Sophie instantly felt contrite. No need to be a sour apple. It wasn’t Felicity’s fault she was in this mess. Nor could her assistant help the fact she had asthma. Fate simply had it in for her. Always had and always would.
Swallowing a sigh, she sucked in a deep breath careful not to make eye contact with anyone in the room – why make this even more embarrassing? – then placed her blue three-inch spiked heel onto the footstep inside the cake and attempted to climb out with as much dignity one could rally wearing a blue-sequined G-string. She managed a somewhat graceful exit onto the black lacquered table in front of the cart. Then for a few spine-tingling seconds she teetered like a bowling pin before her legs finally found their bearings.
Okay. Still standing. That’s a good sign.
Where was the music? The laughter? This was a birthday party, wasn’t it?
Keeping her eyes averted, Sophie leaned over the cart and pushed the button on the CD player. Soft, rhythmical tambourines of Belly Dance Nights filled the room. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth and started to swa
y. Please let me be somewhere close to the beat of this horrific music.
Coordination had never been her thing.
“Dio! What the hell are you doing?”
The deep masculine voice thundered over the tambourines and harps streaming from the CD.
Startled, Sophie’s eyes flew open. The breath rushed from her lungs and tentacles of awareness gripped her spine. All oxygen seemed to evaporate from the room.
Oh, dear heavens no! It can’t be!
Looming – definitely looming with at least six feet or so – at the opposite end the of the rectangular table in front of a large white projector screen displaying vibrant bar graphs stood the one man she hoped she’d never see again.
The sexy Italian she’d practically thrown herself at six years ago.
Maximus Rinaldi.
Sophie blinked, clenching her fist so tight her nails dug into her palm. Please, please, please let this be some sort of an illusion.
She swallowed hard, her eyes taking in his tanned olive skin, thick dark hair with just a hint of curl brushing the collar of a charcoal Armani suit, a proud Italian chin, cold dispassionate gray eyes and an arrogant, unsmiling face.
The man staring back at her definitely wasn’t seventy and this was no birthday party.
Oh, God, please, please, please don’t let him recognize me.
* * *
Maximus Rinaldi stiffened in mid-speech, laser pointer in hand, a thin red beam aimed straight at a creamy bare midriff connected to long, sinewy legs on top of the table. His gaze swept over the nearly naked woman giving what could only be described as a pitiful attempt at some kind of dance – or was she having a seizure? – in the private conference room filled with his Chinese investors.
Max clenched his chin. His conservative Chinese investors.
Shoulder-length auburn hair swirled around a pale heart-shaped face with each distorted movement and shocked, lovely green eyes flecked with a sensuous mocha starburst seemed to bore into him, but what he noticed the most was her full, voluptuous body covered with only–
Max blinked. Strings? Strings? His jaw twitched. Damn. It was strings. Royal blue with shiny baubles that left very little to the imagination. Especially, since she had just leaned over and given his colleagues a very interesting view of her thongs. Max’s chin tightened. A very nice view he might add and any other time he might have appreciated the distraction.
Might have even been amused.
But this was not that time. Not with a roomful of potential investors now murmuring disapprovingly among themselves about the morals – or rather the lack of morals – of Western women. A sound he didn’t care to hear after spending the better part of two hours convincing them that his hotels were a respectable and sound investment.
“Dio! What the hell are you doing?” Max flicked off the laser and strode toward her with long purposeful strides. “And for God’s sake turn off that dreadful music.”
The woman’s eyes widened, a flush creeping over her cheeks all the way to her hairline. For a brief second, Max almost felt sorry for her. For whatever reason she had felt the need to interrupt his business meeting and break into a dance – or whatever in God’s name she was trying to do – that she certainly wasn’t any good at it. Max’s brows slashed downward. Who was she? A spy sent by another company? Someone sent to sabotage his meeting? Or simply another gold-digger trying to get into his wallet?
“Right. Sorry.” The woman leaned over, her hair falling forward like flames around her face, and punched a button silencing the harps and tambourines. Max sucked in a sharp breath as the movement flashed the room another eyeful of her charming derriere and along with it the small birthmark situated along her right thigh.
Max drew his brows together. Hadn’t he seen that dark half-moon somewhere before?
He reached her end of the table just as she straightened. He froze and a soft breath hissed between his teeth. God, she reminded him of…
A shriek pierced the air as her left heel skidded across the glossy lacquer. The sickening screech drew another round of shocked murmurs from his investors.
With a knee-jerk reaction Max’s arms shot out and encircled her waist while she teetered toward the edge. Her full, pink lips formed a surprised O as he hauled her half-naked body flush against him before she could hit the floor. Soft, subtle curves molded into his body and his hands tingled against her velvety skin. Max inhaled sharply.
Lavender and vanilla. The same delectable scent that had haunted his dreams for the past six years. His chest tightened. Christo! Could she be…?
No! Not possible. Max quenched the ridiculous thought before it could take root in his mind. No matter how many times he’d tried, how many investigators he’d hired or how much money he’d thrown around, he’d never been able to find the mysterious woman he had shared one unforgettable, passionate night with six years go. She’d disappeared like an elusive dream as quickly as she’d appeared, leaving him with an unquenchable desire he couldn’t quite shake. Not that he’d wanted anything permanent with her, of course. He didn’t do permanent. But, there had been something between them – a connection – that he couldn’t get out of his mind.
Something he had never felt with any other woman before or after.
The rhythmical thud, thud, thud of the woman’s heart against his chest seemed to echo in the now silent room. An unexpected bolt of desire flared in his blood reminding him he was still a hot-blooded Italian male and not immune to the charms of a beautiful woman, even if she wasn’t the one occupying his thoughts day and night. His arm curled around her small waist.
“Oh, crap!” She tilted her head to look up at him. Her flush deepened. “I – I’m so sorry.”
Max frowned with annoyance, more from where his thoughts had taken him than from her untimely interruption of his very important meeting. “Would you care to stop apologizing and simply answer my questions?”
The woman started. “Oh, sorry.” She clamped a hand over her mouth, her nervous eyes darkening to a delightful shade of green. “I mean, I – I’m Sophie.”
Max’s breath hitched. The woman did seem vaguely familiar. But then again, so had every other woman he’d met in the last six years with green eyes and fiery red hair. And none had turned out to be her.
He swallowed a sigh. Neither would this one. But this woman – Sophie – was quite lovely in a wholesome sort of way with a sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks. The type of woman one would bring home to meet the family.
If one had a family to bring a woman home to.
Max’s stomach twisted into a sailor’s knot. He immediately stamped out the thought. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have a family. He didn’t plan on ever letting a relationship with anyone get far enough for that.
Families, babies and happily-ever-after were not in his vocabulary. Not anymore. Not, of course, that he minded the occasional fling as long as both parties were in mutual agreement.
No strings attached. That was his motto.
Max’s gaze swept the length of Sophie. Heat flooded through him. This woman definitely had very few strings attached. Very, very few strings, with lots of creamy skin and more curves than a road map through the Swiss Alps.
He narrowed his eyes. So, why was Miss Wholesome wearing “hire me for your pleasure” attire? A muscle flexed in his chin. She must be a spy from one of his competitors. Who else would dare interrupt his meeting? “Would you kindly explain why you are standing half-naked in the middle of my presentation?”
Sophie unclamped her hand and let it fall to her side. A soft sigh escaped her lips as her head bobbed up and down. “The flu.”
“The flu?”
“Right. And asthma.”
“You’re standing in here half-naked because you have the flu and asthma?” Could explain her lack of dancing abilities. Maybe she was on meds.
She waved a hand in front her and stepped out of his embrace, her lower back pressed against the table. The sudden urge to pull
her back in his arms surprised him. “No. No. Not me. I’m healthy as a horse. Felicity–” Sophie gestured toward the door. “She has asthma and, well, asthma and tight spaces don’t exactly mesh.” She pointed to the heavily frosted plastic cake beside them. “Then Tootsie or Bunny or whatever the name of the exotic dancer I hired is came down with a nasty case of the flu and had to cancel at the last minute. I tried to find a replacement dancer, of course, but apparently there is a big run on them on Tuesday nights in October. Who knew?” Her shoulders lifted as if that explained everything. Of course, it actually told him nothing. “So that left me.” She blew a breath between her lips.
Max swallowed a sigh. No meds. Just plain nuts. Definitely not his mystery woman from six years ago.
“You still haven’t explained what you are doing in here.”
“Wishing you a happy birthday, of course.” She gave him a wobbly dimpled grin, though her words didn’t hold much conviction.
“It’s not my birthday.” Max fisted the laser pointer. No one made a fool of him.
“Oh.” Sophie shot another uneasy look around her. “I – I suppose it’s not.” Max’s gaze followed hers and his chin twitched. His clients were not amused by her faux pas and neither was he.
A discreet cough caught Max’s attention as chairs moved away from the table. Several Asian men stood, discomfort evident in their tight faces. In quick Chinese one of them pointed to the projector screen and declined the current offer muttering something about needing a more conservative project.
A muscle flexed in Max’s jaw. “Gentleman, I apologize for this–” he narrowed his eyes at Sophie “–interruption. I assure you it will not happen again. If you’ll give me a moment to sort this out, I will make you an offer you can’t possibly refuse.”
The men shook their heads, shuffled papers into their briefcases and headed toward the door.
One of the men stopped in front of Sophie, contempt lining his Asian features. “I do not think we are ready for your hotel’s services.”
Sophie’s green eyes snapped with indignation. “I am not a service of this hotel.”
Catering to the Italian Playboy Page 1