Hot for Him

by Sarah Mayberry

  “Vintage Dior. Mac bought it for me. That’s all I’m saying,” she said, waggling her eyebrows mysteriously.

  “What about you, Sade?” Claudia asked.

  “I’m recycling. The black-and-white sheath I wore a few years ago.” She shrugged.

  “You know, usually I hate these things, but I have a good feeling about this one,” Grace said, suppressed excitement in her voice.

  Claudia met her friends’ eyes and held up both her crossed fingers.

  She really wanted to win this award. And not just because it meant she could rub Leandro Mandalor’s big Greek nose in her triumph.

  Although that was definitely part of the appeal.

  * * *

  LEANDRO TURNED the shower on, waiting till the water was good and hot before stepping beneath the stream. His old soccer injury was aching after a day of sitting in one position for too long, and he rolled his shoulder for a few minutes, letting the heat work the stiffness out of his muscles. Reaching for the tiny bottles of toiletries supplied by the hotel, he squeezed shampoo into his palm and massaged it into his hair. Immediately, he was surrounded by a scent that was strangely familiar and beguiling. Definitely floral, but with a warm undertone that hinted at something darker and deeper. Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes and tried to think. A vague image swam across his mind’s eye, and then it came to him: Claudia Dostis. The shampoo smelled exactly like Claudia Dostis.

  He smiled into the shower spray as he rinsed the lather from his hair. His shin had already turned a pleasing shade of bruise from her well-planted kick a few hours ago, and he knew he should be more pissed than tickled by her display of temper, but he couldn’t help himself. She reminded him of all the best things about his feisty female relatives—full of pluck and opinion and zest for life. She might be one step up from midget status, but she was all energy—a vibrant, dynamic woman who took life by the scruff of the neck and shook it for all it was worth.

  Plus he’d always had a thing for short women. Easy to say when he checked in at six feet four inches, since almost every woman was shorter than he was, but Claudia was genuinely on the miniature side. Just like most of his girlfriends since high school. And his soon-to-be ex-wife, Peta.

  Thinking about Peta effectively killed any buzz he’d generated thinking about the feisty Ms. Dostis. He’d had the divorce papers couriered over to Peta last week, but she was still stalling on signing. They hadn’t been married for long enough for the delay to be about the money—they’d both agreed to walk away with what they’d brought to the relationship. The reality was, Peta didn’t need his money. As it turned out, she hadn’t needed his anything. Their marriage had been a joke from beginning to end—a joke perpetrated by his raging hormones and his stubborn belief that he could make their relationship work.

  Now he just wanted it to be over. It was bad enough that he was the only member of his large family to have a divorce under his belt. His brothers and sisters had all chosen well when they gave away their hearts. His mama hadn’t stopped telling him that she’d known from the moment she set eyes on Peta that she was wrong for her boy. Too blond. Too skinny. Too ambitious.

  While he still didn’t agree with his mother on points one or two, he had to bow to her superior wisdom on three; Peta, it turned out, had cared more about her career as an up-and-coming agent than she did about her fledgling marriage. When she’d opted to use confidential information that he’d shared with her in the privacy of their bedroom to further her career, he’d gotten the message loud and clear. Peta had a fire in her belly—but it wasn’t big enough to warm the both of them. It had only been a matter of time after that before their marriage had died a quiet, painful death.

  Turning his back to the shower spray, Leandro planted his hands on the wall opposite and ducked his head, letting the water run down the column of his spine.

  Was he bitter? He didn’t think so. More…wary. He still wanted a wife, children. He wanted the warmth and belonging of building his own little family unit. But next time around, he would choose more wisely. No more career women in their stiletto heels and neat little suits. No more business lunches that turned into personal dinners and then something much more personal. This time, he’d use his head as well as his heart and regions farther south when he picked his life mate.

  His thoughts flew to the delicious Ms. Dostis again, and regions farther south gave a definite twitch of approval. Yeah, she was hot. A pocket rocket, his brothers would call her—small of frame and stature, but with curves in all the right places. She was all woman, and if she attacked sex with one fraction of the energy she attacked the rest of life, he figured bedtime with her would be a death-defying experience.

  Reluctantly, he pushed the tempting thoughts from his mind. She was his competitor, for starters. And even if there wasn’t that major stumbling block to consider, there was the fact that he was about to become a newly divorced man at the age of thirty-six. His days of playing the field were behind him—he wanted to be young enough to kick a soccer ball with his children. There was no time to stop and smell the flowers anymore, even if Claudia was a particularly enticing bloom. He was a man on a mission—meet, mate, procreate.

  Exiting the shower, he toweled himself dry and wandered, naked, into the bedroom. His suit was hanging on the back of the closet door and he eyed it with misgiving for a long beat. Monkey suits were the curse of the industry, in his opinion. No matter how well-cut the suit, he always felt as though he was wearing a straitjacket. Shrugging into his shirt, his mind drifted to the night ahead. Speeches, announcements, daytime stars, writers, directors and producers swanning about with too much champagne and too little food. It was going to be duller than dull. There was only one moment of possible interest—the Best Special Feature Award. There were four contenders in the category, but Heartland’s only real competition was Ocean Boulevard.

  He was quietly confident they’d pull it off. He’d lavished money, time and effort on their white wedding episode. They’d shot on location in Aspen, bought a couture dress and sprung for extra publicity. True, Ocean Boulevard’s special had just beaten them in the ratings. But Leandro was sure the production values of his effort would tip the balance in their favor.

  Slipping on boxer briefs, he pulled his suit trousers on. Claudia would breathe fire when he stood on the podium and accepted the award. Did it make him a cad that he was looking forward to seeing her delicate nostrils flare out in anger yet again?

  Just the thought of it brought a smile to his face as he tied his shoelaces.

  He couldn’t remember the last time a little friendly rivalry had been so much fun.

  * * *

  LIAR, LIAR, pants on fire.

  The words ran across Claudia’s mind as she stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of Leandro Mandalor in full black tie. Good Lord, he looked stunning—a veritable man mountain in elegant black. His hair shone in the discreet lighting of the hotel’s ballroom, and the crisp white of his shirt was the perfect foil for his olive skin.

  In contrast to what she’d told her friends earlier, he was a very, very attractive man.

  There, she’d admitted it, if only to herself. And she’d be damned if she ever said the words out loud—it was embarrassing enough having the hots for a man so beneath her contempt.

  Although…she’d been thinking quite a bit about what he’d said to her earlier at the convention—about what she would have done in his shoes. If she’d learned he was trying to stitch up the winter ratings period, she’d have seen red…then she’d have tried to out-maneuver him. Which was pretty much what he’d done. He’d announced his wedding episode, proclaimed it to the world as the last word in lavish soap excess, then dared her to best him. So maybe he wasn’t quite as contemptuous as she’d first thought.

  But he was still her arch rival—conniving sneakery or no conniving sneakery. He still lusted after her ratings points, just as she salivated over his. And he was Greek. She never, ever dated Greek men. They reminded
her of her brothers and her father and her cousins, and they brought to mind every family gathering she’d ever attended since before she could remember. They were too traditional, too alpha, too domineering. Not that she was in any danger of being dominated—she simply had better things to do with her time than to manage some lunkhead with a bee in his bonnet about looking after her, or something equally medieval. She preferred men with more modern outlooks, men who played by the same rules she did.

  “Wow. Check out those sissy lips and that big Greek honker,” Grace said, eating up Leandro with her eyes.

  “Oooh yeah, he just about makes me feel sick to my stomach,” Sadie chimed in.

  Standing on Grace’s other side, Mac cleared his throat and shot Dylan a world-weary look.

  “A little consideration for the chopped liver over here, ladies,” Mac said. “At least wait until we’re not around before you start scoring the other studs out of ten.”

  “The other studs?” Grace asked, one eyebrow arched imperiously.

  “We still qualify, even if we are spoken for,” Dylan said, smoothing a hand down the sleeve of his midnight-blue tux.

  Sadie stepped close to straighten his tie. “I’m willing to concede the point,” she said huskily, smiling up at him from under her lashes.

  Claudia tore her eyes from Leandro and tried to remember what she’d been thinking before she got hit by the freight train that was her rival’s sex appeal.

  Right. Their table. She’d been looking for their table. Consulting the notes her assistant had provided, she began scanning the room for table five. It was flatteringly close to the stage, and Claudia told herself it was a good sign—easy access to the podium. The organizers wouldn’t do that unless she actually needed to get up there, right?

  “We’re over here, guys,” she said, directing them toward the round banquet table marked for Ocean Boulevard.

  As she turned away, something tugged at her awareness. She knew Leandro was looking at her before she glanced his way. His near-black eyes were unreadable from a distance, but his acknowledging nod and the quirk of his mouth told her he was laughing at her again. In an instant she went from self-conscious to annoyed. More than anything, she’d like to flip him the finger. Instead, she smoothed a hand down her hip and over her butt, all of it hugged to perfection in deep red velvet, and turned her back on him.

  She could feel him watching her all the way to her table, and she thanked her guardian angel that she didn’t stumble in her high heels and long skirt. Just what she needed, to go ass-over-tit in front of Mr. Machismo.

  “Claud, you sit between me and Grace,” Sadie said. “That way we won’t have to talk across Mac and Dylan all night.”

  “See? Chopped liver again,” Mac joked as he took his seat. Grace slid her hand beneath the table and an arrested expression crossed Mac’s handsome face.

  “Still feeling like chopped liver?” Grace asked in a sultry tone.

  “N-no, not exactly,” Mac said, his eyes finding Grace’s substantial cleavage.

  “Settle, children. Don’t make me go find the fire hose,” Claudia warned them.

  Lately she’d found herself feeling like a spinster aunt with two sets of lovebirds twittering around her constantly. Most of the time she was too busy to regret her lack of a love life, but when she saw a fine specimen of manhood such as Leandro dressed up in all his finery, she couldn’t help remembering that there were definite perks to having a man in her life.

  Sex being the major perk on her mind right this minute as she watched Leandro weave his way through the tables. For a big man, he moved with surprising grace. And even though she’d made a few cracks about his Greek nose, it suited him. It was a man’s nose—a take-no-prisoners kind of nose.

  Realizing that she was staring, Claudia concentrated on unfolding her napkin and spreading it across her lap.

  Off-limits, she reminded herself. But perhaps a timely reminder that it had been a while since she’d caught up with either Harry or Simon, her two bed buddies. Although last time she’d seen him, Harry had been all doe-eyed over a woman in his office. One of the hazards of bed buddies—sometimes they fell in love with someone and left a girl stranded.

  Sliding her slim-lined cell phone from her small clutch purse, Claudia punched in a quick text message to Simon. If he was free tonight, there was no reason why he couldn’t meet her at the hotel after the ceremony. Instead of spending the night on her own, ricocheting around the lavish suite the production company had provided for the duration of the convention, she and Simon could see how many rooms they could christen.

  Her finger hovering over the Send key, Claudia glanced up and was caught in the magnetic darkness of Leandro’s gaze. His table was the one across from hers, and he was seated facing her. She’d be looking at him all night. At those shoulders. Those firm, full lips. And he’d be looking right back at her, his eyes full of heat and curiosity and challenge.

  Her finger descended on the Send key, and she sent a prayer to the goddess that Simon was sitting at home twiddling his thumbs tonight. If she had any luck, he’d be twiddling something a lot more interesting later this evening.

  Feeling distinctly jittery, she fidgeted with her silverware and wineglass and pretended she was listening to what her friends were saying on either side of her while she waited for her old lover to respond.

  It had been a few months since she’d scratched the particular itch that was bugging her tonight, she realized as she did a mental calendar check. How had that happened? No wonder she was feeling like a cat on a hot tin roof. She was well overdue for a good roll in the hay.

  Her phone beeped in her purse and she almost leaped on it. Her breath hissed out between her teeth as she saw Simon’s response: Can’t make it. Wish me luck—just got engaged! S.

  Good Lord. Claudia stared at the screen for a full minute, feeling as though someone had pulled the rug out from under her. First Harry, now Simon. She really was a hard-up spinster. Automatically she sent a text back, offering her congratulations and best wishes. Simon was a nice guy. She really did wish him well.

  She was so distracted, she didn’t notice the waiter leaning close to pour her wine, and her glass was full before she could protest. Grace solved the problem by placing her hand over her own glass, then swapping with Claudia’s full one when the waiter had moved on.

  “Thanks,” Claudia said, reaching for her water glass.

  “No problem,” Grace said. “Relax, Claud—if we win it’s great, if we lose it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Okay. I’m not quite sure how the logic of that works, but I’ll try to go with it,” Claudia said.

  She was nervous about the stupid award. That was probably half the reason why her stomach was tied up in knots. As for being sexually frustrated…well, it wasn’t like she was going to lose control and start humping Leandro Mandalor’s leg or anything, was it? She could survive one evening of being attracted to a handsome man without taking a one-way trip to Desperado-ville.

  “Ladies and gentleman, please take your seats if you haven’t already. We’re thrilled to have you all here this evening to celebrate the twenty-third annual People’s Vote Awards,” a smooth voice announced over the speakers.

  Claudia sat up straighter. Grace and Sadie grabbed one of her hands each.

  “Two hours, a million speeches, and too much wine from now, it will all be over,” Grace said.

  “We’re going to win,” Sadie said.

  “Definitely we’re going to win,” Dylan agreed.

  Claudia forced a smile. Suddenly she felt twelve years old again, standing in school assembly, waiting to hear her name called for the academic achievement awards. It was stupid to place so much weight on something that was essentially meaningless in her day-to-day life. She earned a good salary, the show was rating well, she had great friends. This award wouldn’t add or subtract from her life in any way.

  But she was still ridiculously excited and nervous and apprehensive.


  Against her will, her gaze found Leandro at his table. He was watching her, but she’d already known that. Lifting his champagne flute, he mouthed the words, “Good Luck,” to her. She inclined her head in regal acknowledgment.

  May the best woman win.

  * * *

  LEANDRO SPUN his wineglass around and around on the white linen tablecloth and tried to keep his eyes from wandering to Claudia Dostis again. It was useless, however—she looked spectacular in a deep red velvet evening gown, and he was powerless to stop himself from seeking out the deeply shadowed V between her breasts. Idly he wondered if she was worried about one of her girls accidentally popping out to say “hello” during the evening—her dress was seriously cut almost down to her belly button. She must be using a hell of a lot of Hollywood tape, he figured. But it didn’t stop him fantasizing about the neckline of her top gaping or sliding open a fraction more. Just enough for him to see some nipple. One would be enough. For some reason, he’d developed something of a preoccupation regarding her nipples since she’d set foot in the room. He wanted to know what they looked like—whether they were small and pouty or large and swollen—what color they were, how they would feel beneath his hands, in his mouth, against his tongue. What sort of noises she’d make when he sucked on them, thumbed them, bit them.

  Just your garden-variety obsession, really. One that had kept him in his seat for most of the evening, concealing the kind of hard-on he hadn’t enjoyed since senior high.

  The bummer was, he wasn’t ever going to find out the answer to all those sensual conundrums. Claudia’s nipples would remain her little secret, for a host of good reasons he’d already gone over in his suite upstairs. Damn it.

  A round of applause cut across his thoughts and he automatically brought his hands together. Dragging his eyes from the scarlet vixen across the way, he ran a finger down the awards list for the evening. One more announcement, and then they were up. He felt in his pocket to see if the speech he’d written earlier was still there, then surreptitiously used the back of his spoon to check that he didn’t have spinach stuck in his teeth.