“By looking like Zorro?”
“By looking like a romance hero. You’re a romance editor—see the connection?”
Ellen saw, all right. Was not interested. Romance heroes didn’t exist outside of books and even if they did, she’d had her fill of men recently, thank you very much. This one swept through the lobby with a dramatic flourish that demanded the attention of every person in the place, including the sleepy-eyed desk clerks.
His brown hair fell to his waist and the black cape flew out behind him as if he were striding off a windswept moor. Not to mention his thoughtlessness—his entourage, a gaggle of model-thin women dressed in outlandishly sexy costumes, was forced to gallop to keep up with his long-legged strides.
“Oh, no. He’s not wearing his name tag. Who is he again? I can’t very well call him Mr. Muscle-Butt.”
“Vittorio,” Lennon whispered beneath her breath while standing to greet the new arrivals. “Congratulate him on winning first place in the cover model competition tonight. He’ll be crushed if he thinks you didn’t notice.”
“Got it.” Ellen set her mug on the table, slapped on her professional smile again and followed Lennon’s lead. “Good evening, Vittorio. Congratulations on your win.”
He extended his hand, and she had no choice but to offer hers, while he smiled what had to be a smile even more professional than her own. She had the unkind thought that he’d probably devoted days to practicing that smile in front of a mirror. Going for charming…dashing…roguish—ugh!
“My lovely Ellen.” He bowed and his mouth grazed her knuckles gallantly, while she struggled to keep a straight face. Lennon rolled her eyes in her periphery. “Congratulations on your success this evening, as well.”
He reluctantly let her hand slip away before turning to kiss Lennon on both cheeks.
“Where’s Josh? Surely your new husband isn’t neglecting you on your special night.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “He came for the award ceremony and offered to stay, but I could tell he was antsy. Too much estrogen flying around for his taste.”
A frown drew Vittorio’s brows together. “Too much estrogen?” He swept an expansive glance at the groupies who’d settled into silence behind him. “No such thing.”
No doubt. Ellen wasn’t sure whether he referred to her or his entourage, but when he flashed another smile—definitely aimed at her—she suspected the former and bit back a groan.
“Lovely Ellen—tell me you’re not planning to run off right after the convention. I want to tour you around the Big Easy. Show you all the secret places only the locals know.”
He may have said secret but he meant intimate, and his suggestive tone made her swallow back yet another groan. “I’m not running off. Not right away,” she said.
“My good fortune, then.” Another roguish smile, this time accompanied by a slight flaring of his nostrils that just screamed testosterone. “You’ll make time for me.”
No question. No politely asking. Just a you-will-make-time-for-me declaration that jump-started her half-sleeping synapses.
“I’m sorry, Vittorio. We’re going to need a day planner to keep up with all we’ve got scheduled,” she said, lying so easily it was scary. “Lennon’s Auntie Q has this murder-mystery thing planned. We’ll be leaving New Orleans on Wednesday.”
That wasn’t a lie. She’d committed to some corporate-training-murder-mystery event for Miss Q’s—Miss Quinevere McDarby’s—latest business venture. Ellen still wasn’t clear on the details, but Lennon and a few of her other authors would be attending, and she figured solving mysteries would provide an interesting diversion.
She needed a good diversion right now.
A quizzical lift of dark brows hinted that Vittorio wasn’t turned down very often. Ellen would have felt bad, but the man appeared to have enough women fawning over him. So technically she was saving him from disappointment—because she didn’t fawn. Ever.
“Right. Okay.” He eyed her as though something had taken place and he hadn’t yet figured out what.
His groupies obviously recognized the power shift, though, and stopped glaring long enough to console him, enveloping him in a press of bodies and a cloud of expensive perfume. Vittorio took his cue to leave, with a dashing smile and a jauntily delivered “Good night.”
Ellen watched him go, marveled that not one of those women had objected to him asking her out in their presence. No, they’d glared at her, instead, like she’d forced him to flirt.
“Why me?” she asked.
The question had been rhetorical, but Lennon obliged her, anyway. “It’s your hair. That swingy new style.” Her gaze shot straight to the hairstyle in question. “I love it.”
“My stylist gets the credit.” Ellen sat back down and reached for her mug. “He promised me something different.” She shook her head, still enjoying the way her shorter, fuller style swung around her face when she moved.
“What made you decide to cut all your hair off?”
“A change to celebrate my upcoming thirtieth birthday.”
She wouldn’t admit that he’d been attracted to her long hair, but a line from an old song echoed in her memory.
I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair….
Well, Ellen had cut him right out of hers.
“Your new style makes your face softer somehow,” Lennon said. “And it’s amazing how the change draws attention to your skin. You’ve got this whole creamy Snow White thing going on. No wonder Vittorio is smitten.”
“I hope I didn’t put you in an awkward position,” Ellen said, though she didn’t feel the least bit repentant.
“He doesn’t need my help to get a date. Besides, his ego is rock solid. I don’t think he even realized he was in over his head.” Lennon sank back into her chair and grabbed her latte. “So what didn’t you like about him?”
“You know my family. Can you see me bringing home a man who uses more cream rinse than I do?”
Lennon burst into laughter, drawing the attention of a nearby bartender. “That’s not difficult with your new hairstyle. But you’re selling Vittorio short. He may have an ego the size of the Southern Hemisphere but he’s got a heart of pure gold.”
A heart of pure gold would not make the difference. Her family was already tolerant enough of her foibles. Bringing home a man with whom the media would have a field day would cast doubt on her sanity. She could already see the headline: Senator’s Daughter Plays Fantasy Games with a Hero From a Trashy Romance Novel.
Her mother, of course, in an effort to help, would likely direct her wayward youngest to the nearest psychiatric facility.
It’s for the best, Ellen, really. Let’s give you a chance to take a deep breath and clear
