by Aimee Carson
“Freelance?”
Heck yeah, because she’d worked her tail off since she was fifteen, occasionally getting treated like a lowly servant by the guests. But that was okay. She appreciated the valuable lesson. The only orders she’d ever take again were from her clients.
She lifted her chin. “I prefer to be the boss.”
“Me, too.” The glimmer in his eyes returned. “Doesn’t bode well for us, now does it?” What did he mean by that? While she dealt with the confusion at his words, he continued. “And I’m looking for an in-house planner.”
Maintaining his gaze, she ignored the deficiencies in her résumé and focused on the accomplishments. “I think if you listen to my pitch you’ll change your mind.”
The amusement returned full force. “You think so, huh?” His mesmerizing eyes held hers as he rounded the bar to lean his wonderfully muscled swimmer’s frame against the counter.
Suddenly, she did regret refusing a drink. And forget the fruity mojito. She needed a shot of whiskey. Because the man looked very comfortable in his skin…all that wonderfully exposed tan skin drying in the sun. The urge to drop her eyes to his chest was strong, but she steadfastly held his gaze. Looking down would be sensual suicide.
After a pause, he finally went on. “Don’t you have an interview soon?” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “Wouldn’t want to be late.” He cocked his head, eyes sparkling with humor. “First impressions are important.”
She pressed her lips together, holding back the laugh. Oh, he was smooth. Very smooth. But she had the sale of the century to pull off, so she sent him her best self-assured smile. “That’s right,” she said, and inwardly cringed at her twangy words. After years of practice, the country accent still couldn’t be totally contained. “So, if you’ll excuse me.” She slid off her seat and picked up her tote, lifting what she hoped was a dignified brow. “I have a job to land.” And with a confidence she didn’t feel, she turned and walked toward the exit. Other than the clap of her heels, silence followed until she was five feet from the elevator doors.
“Good luck with your pitch,” he said, his voice sounding amused again.
Paulo watched the lady walk away with a regal air, hips swaying gracefully.
Outrageous. Abso-freakin’-lutely outrageous.
The combination of professional businesswoman and spunky attitude was riveting. The fitted skirt hugged a shapely backside and extended to her knees, her spectacular shoes the only style in a painfully bland outfit. With a push of a button, the swish of the elevator door, she disappeared behind a curtain of stainless steel, and his body slowly began to unwind from the knot it was cinched into.
After spending a hot morning outside, conferring with the landscaper, he’d needed a dip in the pool before checking the contractor’s work in the penthouse. And now his instincts—instincts that never failed—hadn’t been able to determine if Ms. Alyssa Hunt shared in the attraction or not. But he needed a shower. Maybe two. And most definitely cold.
He also needed to get his head out of the gutter.
But ten minutes later Paulo decided frigid showers were overrated in their ability to quash an attack of lust. His certainly hadn’t helped. After pulling on clean clothes, he left the room he’d kept for his personal use during the renovations still preoccupied with thoughts of Alyssa Hunt. His mind was filled to the brim with a delicious picture of her, and Paulo’s slow simmer kept returning to a rolling boil.
Smoky eyes. Delicate features. Her look had screamed professional. But the sharp tongue—tinged with an intermittent drawl—hinted at the possibility for passion beneath. And the killer body couldn’t be disguised by the uptight business suit.
As he turned down the hallway leading to his office, anticipation coiled around his libido and his body tightened in response.
Paulo paused in his doorway, taking a moment to enjoy the sight of the woman in the chair across from his mahogany desk. Honey-colored hair fell in a sleek line to her shoulders, and she sat with a dainty precision. Back straight. Legs crossed. Hands folded on her lap.
When their eyes met, he felt a current of awareness, and he held her gaze as he crossed the floor. He’d give anything to see her sassy side return. “Before we get started, would you like to ask me any more questions?”
The cool gray eyes didn’t flicker. But the luscious strawberry-colored lips sent him a genteel smile. “I’d prefer to explain why I’m the answer to your event planner problem.”
He leaned back against the front of his desk. He had a problem, all right. Several of them.
After the smooth purchase and renovation of the Samba, now everything was falling apart. The event planner had deserted him. His general manager had left to deal with an emergency at another one of Paulo’s hotels. And, to top it off, the band scheduled for the grand opening had reneged on their contract.
Typical. It would happen when the most important opening of his career was just eighteen days away. He’d waited years to prove Marcos wrong about the Samba.
With a small frown, he pushed the thoughts of his brother aside. “I hope you can help me too,” he said. “But I need to learn a lot more about you first.”
Desperation flit across her heart-shaped face before it went blank. What was the flash of panic for?
As soon as the thought formed, he squashed it. Her vulnerabilities had nothing to do with him. Whether or not he hired her would be based on her abilities.
After half a decade of killing himself at Domingues International, Paulo had finally wised up and broken free to carve out his own business vision, in his own way. No more sacrificing his life on the altar of success for a family who never noticed. No more following the Domingues creed of eating, sleeping and breathing the job, while reaping none of the rewards. Work hard and play hard, with his own needs as the goal. That was the motto he’d learned, and he wasn’t about to let anything—anyone—distract him from it.
He realized Alyssa Hunt was still staring at him and he broke the train of disturbing thoughts. “Let’s start with your résumé.”
With a firm set to her delectable mouth, she reached into her tote on the floor, pulling out a folder. She handed it to him and silently sat back.
He allowed himself a brief scan of shapely calves and then, with a harsh internal reminder of what this interview was supposed to be about, he scanned her résumé instead. And the more he read, the more discouraged he got. When he reached the end, brows pinched with doubt, he met her gaze again.
“Your experience consists of minor corporate functions. Our social events will be on a much larger scale. And certainly more…” He paused, searching for a tactful approach. Wouldn’t want to expose her vulnerabilities again, and his unwanted twinge of sympathy. “Sophisticated.”
He failed at his task, because her posture and the polite expression went brittle enough to break. But the sexy drawl returned, stronger than before. “I’m perfectly capable of handlin’ the work, Mr. Domingues.”
He crossed his arms, amused. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.” And he meant it. Because the woman fascinated him. But he couldn’t let the most important business acquisition of his life hinge on an unqualified event planner, not without supervision. And he’d decided the woman would definitely be a distraction. The thought strengthened his resolve, and he set her résumé on the desk behind him. “Besides, I told you,” he went on, “I’m looking for an in-house planner.”
Her delicate chin climbed higher, and this time her words were as crisp as her posture. “And I believe as your strategic partner, I would make a better choice.”
Paulo’s lips twitched at her carefully worded description. “I don’t do partners.” Neither professionally, nor personally. He’d learned both in one neat and tidy bout with betrayal.
So thoughtfully provided to him via his family and his ex-wife.
The memory kicked up a dust cloud of bitterness, choking off his good humor. Seeking a zen-like calm, he picked up the autographed baseball d
isplayed on his desk and rolled it between his hands. Because calm was okay. Actually, calm was good. But forgetting…?
Absolutely not.
So now he limited his relationships to those that went as deep as easy listening Muzak. He liked his women soothing, occasionally diverting, but relegated to the background of his life.
After a few seconds, Paulo realized Alyssa wasn’t gathering her tote to leave. If anything, she looked even more rooted in her chair. Interesting.
But, as enjoyable as this interview was, he was late for his meeting with the contractor. With a touch of regret, he pushed up from the desk and set the ball aside. “You have my answer, Ms. Hunt,” Paulo said. “My secretary will see you out.”
As he headed for the door, he heard her heels hit the wood floor and follow. A surprised grin shot to his lips. Determination appeared to be the lady’s first, last and middle name.
“If you would just give me a chance.” Alyssa Hunt laid a gentle hand on his arm.
The soft Southern accent and skin-on-skin touch stopped him mid-step, cranking up the achy need with a visceral response that left him smoking. His grin died as he turned to stare at her. Damn. Torture was definitely the order of the day. And while she was busy twisting him in painful knots, her face remained cool and collected.
And how moronic would it be to pass on a planner that could solve his problem? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to resist the allure of a beautiful woman. She was clearly tenacious, and he could use someone with that much fire on his side.
At the very least he could give her a chance to change his mind. Because his secretary was too overwhelmed to help, and he needed somebody now. Someone who at least had a clue. Rubbing his jaw, he considered his next move, and realized he had only one choice.
He would just have to continually beat it into his head not to flirt with the woman.
“Okay, Ms. Hunt.” Paulo crossed his arms, breaking their contact and the resulting sizzle, his tone all business. “I have to check the contractor’s work in the penthouse.” He nodded toward the elevator down the hall, his lips smiling in rebellious anticipation. “You have until we reach the top floor to convince me to hire you.”
After two blinks and three pounding heartbeats, the words penetrated Alyssa’s brain. Gaping open-mouthed would hardly be polite, but her eyelids managed to do a decent imitation. Because there wouldn’t be time to give an address and phone number, much less pull off the impossible.
But at least he’d agreed to hear her pitch. She discreetly bit her lip and looked at Paulo, now dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. She guessed the wealthy son of a powerful family and owner of a successful line of hotels didn’t need a suit. She wished she had that option. With a tiny sigh, she wiggled her toes, cramped in her designer heels.
Perhaps if she pried that silver spoon from his smart-alecky mouth, it would wipe the sexy smile from his face?
Well, she wanted this account and she wasn’t giving up. She forced herself to focus. “Okay, Mr. Domingues.” He set off down the hallway, and she followed along beside him. “I’m familiar with the boutique concept of your hotel line.” They entered the lobby, her heels clicking on the wood, and she went on. “And I admire its emphasis on personal service.”
As they crossed the floor, she snuck a peek at Paulo. His face looked almost bored.
Her heart slunk lower as they reached their destination. “I have excellent people skills. I’m committed to customer satisfaction.” With the push of a button, the elevator doors opened and they entered. When the doors slid shut behind her, she said, “And I work well under pressure.”
This seemed to prick his interest. “Do you really?” he said as he stepped closer.
His proximity, and the smolder in his eyes, pushed her closer to the edge, and every cell in her body ceased what it was doing to take notes. She inhaled, only to catch a whiff of masculine soap.
Easy, Alyssa. Remember what’s important.
She forced herself to maintain a neutral expression. “Would you like me to cite specific examples?”
A dimple appeared as he leaned closer, pushing a button on the panel beside her. “I’d rather see for myself.”
Was that what this torture session was all about? Palms damp, she felt her stomach lurch as the elevator lifted. A pinging sound began as they passed each floor, coming way too quickly for comfort, but she pressed on. “I’m a stickler for detail. I’m organized and efficient.” She made the mistake of lifting her gaze. His face was now two feet away.
And suddenly she was drowning. Drowning in those better-than-mocha-cappuccino eyes. More golden-brown than dark. Beautiful. With tiny little specks of green.
He had to know exactly what he was doing to her as he patiently waited for her to go on. Ignoring the pesky rate of her heart, she searched for a safe focal point, but couldn’t find one. “And I’m particularly good at creative solutions to last minute problems,” she said.
“A thinking-outside-the-box kinda girl?”
“Definitely.”
Ping… His brow lifted expectantly. “Go on.”
His mischievous expression morphed gorgeous into irresistible. And although he wasn’t even close to touching her, he didn’t need to.
He slayed her with a look from those bedroom eyes.
She glanced at the elevator panel, her mind scrambling for something brilliant to say.
Ping… One floor left. A thin line of sweat broke out along her upper lip.
Come on, girl. What’s wrong with you? Your goal, remember? To produce the high-end events that lured you into the business in the first place, and to heck with the past.
The last ding sounded in the small compartment.
Alyssa swore under her breath and reached out to push the emergency stop button. The elevator halted with a jolt that had them bracing against the mirrored walls for support.
Paulo’s expression shot to one of total surprise. “What are you doing?”
After dedicating every waking moment to her business, indulging in a daydream that included her and a potential client was certainly understandable. It just wasn’t acceptable. No matter how tempting. She forced her shoulders back. “I told you. I’m good at creative solutions.”
His forehead bunched in suppressed amusement.
But this was her dream she was fighting for. Nothing funny about it. “Look, Mr. Domingues. I know every vendor in town for putting on a reception.” His amused expression didn’t budge. And, really, he was standing entirely too close. “You want exotic flowers? Use Lynn’s Boutique. They aren’t as fast as Beth’s Florals, but worth the wait if you have the time.” She sucked in a breath, dizzy from her efforts and the handsome man in front of her. “Catering a seafood buffet? Use Dominic’s. Their stuffed scallops are fantastic but they don’t do prime rib so well.”
A lock of hair fell forward across her face.
Alyssa reached up to brush the strand back into place, Paulo’s eyes following her every move. And by the end of the maneuver his gaze was dark. Even as she fought the rising tide of awareness, she knew it was hopeless. The surge of desire had swelled to new heights. Enveloping her. Fogging her brain.
“But whatever you do…” The tight sound of her voice was foreign, but the familiar twang was thick. “Don’t order your ice carvin’ from Jenny’s Designs.” Alyssa waited for him to ask why, but Paulo just stared at her. Was he even listening anymore? Nerves stretched to the max, she pressed on, answering the unasked question. “Their sculptures suck.”
Paulo let out a low chuckle. “That wasn’t a very professional critique.”
“I tried professional.” She frowned. “But you weren’t paying attention.”
“Oh, trust me.” He took half a step closer, sending heat slithering along her veins. “I’m definitely paying attention.”
Hypnotized, she tried to become one with the elevator, pressing her back against the door. Wicked messages skittered like skipping stones along her every nerve. B
ecause that mouth would entice the strongest of women.
And, sadly, she was learning she wasn’t as strong as she thought. She longed to run a finger along his lower lip and then drop her hand to the awe-inspiring plane of muscle on his chest. The mirrored elevator would certainly provide an atmosphere for incredible sex. A person could see everything. And making love with this man would rate a category five on the hurricane rating scale.
“Time’s up,” he said.
His gaze radiated a heat hotter than the sands of South Miami Beach at high noon, and Alyssa watched in utter amazement as Paulo slowly leaned forward.
Did he think he could just kiss her?
Those hazel eyes, those wonderful, heavy, sexy eyes, lingered on her mouth. Molten lava pooled, shortcircuiting her brain. His lips were full, sensual, and slightly parted.
Closer…
His left arm lifted. Where was that hand going?
Closer…
“You’d better brace yourself,” he said huskily.
Her body’s reaction to his words prevented any hope of a coherent thought, and his meaning didn’t become clear until she heard the pop of the emergency button beside her. But by then it was too late, and when the doors slid open she began to fall.
CHAPTER TWO
PAULO stepped forward to catch Alyssa just as her fingers clutched his shirt, and, like a Jackie Chan swivel kick to the chest, the contact blasted his intentions to smithereens.
His body cataloged every glorious sensation. The intoxicating feel of her gentle hips beneath his hands. The knuckles flat against him. But her thighs pressed to his were the most disrupting. Everything about him was hard, while she was soft, supple, bringing sultry visions of hot Southern nights. Entwined limbs. And sated bodies.
He’d wanted to know if the attraction was mutual, but the expression that flashed on her face when her gaze dropped to his mouth…
Man, some things a guy just couldn’t be held responsible for.
So he’d opened the door to escape her and get his reaction under control, triggering a nuclear explosion.