her lips tilted in a smile that held at least a dozen secrets. “All I know about Brooke’s parties is what I’ve read in the papers. What should I expect?”
Marc groaned as he walked beside Jenny toward his car. “Hopefully not what you’ve read in the papers. No police, no vice squad. This is at the family house with members of the press, so it shouldn’t be as wild. Brooke likes team sports, so this will be her way of trying to get everyone playing on the same team.”
Marc opened the car door and watched Jenny slide her legs inside his low-slung vehicle like a well-trained debutante. He didn’t even get a microglimpse of her panties.
Inwardly swearing again, he slammed the door closed and rounded the car to the driver’s side.
“Do you think it will work? The team-building theory?” Jenny asked as he got in the car and buckled his seat belt.
“Depends on the goal. Will it work for Brooke or will it work for Bellagio?”
“Not one and the same,” she said, sliding her legs to the side, toward him.
“Unfortunately not.”
“So what’s your job at the party?” she asked.
He shifted gears, acutely sensitive to the proximity of her legs. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her stroking her hand over her knee. If she were a different woman, in a different circumstance, he could slide his hand over her knee, up her thigh…and then pull his brains out of his pants.
“Sanity,” he said, shaking his head at the direction of his thoughts. “I’m there to provide the sanity.”
AFTER A SHORT DRIVE to the Tarantino Estate, Marc gave his keys to one of the valet attendants. The fact that he could hear the driving beat of the music before he ushered Jenny up the steps to the large porch was his first clue that the party was already rocking out of control.
Reluctant to face the noise within, he led Jenny along the length of the outside porch. “What do you think?” he asked, seeing her gaze swing from side to side as she took in the posh estate.
“It’s big, very grand. It reminds me of something from Gone with the Wind taken up several notches.”
“I’ve always thought it was on the ostentatious side. Not exactly homey,” he said.
“Homey’s not the goal,” she said, skimming her hand over a marble column. “This is for show. Art over the top.”
“Ah, the artiste speaks,” he said. “It’s good that you’re able to balance art with purpose. Some artists have difficulty with that. Did you go through a prima donna stage when you were in design school?”
She looked at him blankly for a moment, then glanced away. “Oh, in design school,” she said and bit her lip. “No, I’ve never been much of a prima donna. In fact, my salsa teacher told me I need to work on developing my inner diva.”
He laughed at her self-deprecation. “What made you take salsa lessons?”
“Well, it was a free lesson,” she said. “And I guess it’s one of those things on my mental list of things I want to do.” Her gaze slid over him briefly then she gave another smile full of secrets that made his gut feel weird. “Do you have that kind of list?”
“I may have at one time,” he said, but couldn’t remember. Between his father’s death and his position at Bellagio, the last few years had been a blur. “I guess I’ve been too busy.”
She gave a nod of understanding. “Hmm. Tough being the youngest VP sometimes. Too bad.”
“Yeah,” he said and felt as if she was looking deeper than his skin for that flash of a moment. He held his breath for an extra beat, then released it. “We should go in.”
“I guess so,” she murmured, sounding as if she had some ambiguous feelings of her own about the party.
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