it onto that label, women he’d never met had been offering to do things for him—to him—that even his ex-fiancée would consider depraved. He’d received naked snapshots in the mail, wrapped in lacy panties that had obviously been worn. Just last night, a woman in a bikini had ambushed them at the airport, throwing herself spread-eagle over the hood of his hired limousine.
His family had been hounding him to employ a bodyguard, but the last thing he needed was some goon in a dark suit following him around as if he were John Gotti or Al Capone. No thanks. He had enough trouble with Italian stereotypes without traveling with hired muscle.
“I’m a businessman, not a celebrity.”
“Care to tell that to the women on the other side of this door?” She turned and moved to undo the lock.
“No.” He rushed to grab her hand, stopping short when she smiled, winked and released the latch. He smoothed his palm over his hair, attempting a nonchalant recovery. Too bad there was nothing nonchalant about the wave of disappointment that rolled over him because he couldn’t touch her again. Ever.
Man, he had to put a stop to this hysteria soon. The barrage of willing women, coupled with his decision to neglect his personal life and personal needs, at least until the European distribution deal solidified LaRocca Food’s solvency, threatened to undo him.
And the adorable pucker on the security guard’s lips wasn’t helping one damn bit.
“That mob shouldn’t have happened,” he insisted, jabbing his finger at the door in an attempt to regain his trademark snarl.
She shrugged. “Shouldn’t have is one thing, but it did. What did you expect anyway? Your picture on that label is more provocative than most Playgirl centerfolds.”
Nick jammed his hand through his hair again, reminding himself that this woman’s haughtiness and her all-too-true observation were insufficient reasons to lose his temper. The label was provocative. He had the sales figures to prove it.
“That picture was not my doing.”
She crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one leg. The pose was disbelief and sassiness potently combined. “You are the CEO of that company, aren’t you?”
“CEO, but not chairman. Some decisions can be made without my knowledge. Or at least, they could before.”
“This isn’t just a little bit about your ego? All those women screaming? Tearing at your clothes?”
His eyebrows shot up. He wasn’t used to talking turkey with a stranger. “You don’t mince words, do you?” he asked.
“No point. I’m a call-’em-like-I-see-’em kind of gal.”
And he usually didn’t find that trait desirable.
Usually.
“Well, you’re seeing this one all wrong.”
His grandmothers, the joint chairwomen of the LaRocca board of directors, had schemed with marketing and production to come up with the new label with his picture on it, enhanced to make him some sort of romantic hero. Before he could fire the artist, sales skyrocketed. All the traditional leaders in the sauce business were still scrambling to catch up.
In the midst of a marketing coup, Nick had hoped this trip to New Orleans would allow him to recapture his once iron-hand grip on his personal life. But not only had his grandmothers seen fit to put his image on the label, they’d included some rather clever copy lamenting his single marital status and celebrating his estimated net worth.
He hadn’t known so many single women lived in the United States. Women in every demographic group had flooded the mailroom with offers of marriage. Eager brides congregated in the lobby of his headquarters on Chicago’s Walker Drive. It was only a matter of time before they set up camp at his Lake Shore condominium.
He’d come to New Orleans eager for a little peace and quiet, not to mention anonymity. The last thing he needed was another headstrong female in his life, even if she had just saved his hide from the desperate throng.
“I’m featured in that booth because ever since that damn label was introduced, without my knowledge,” he added a second time, “sales have gone up forty-seven percent in the past two weeks alone.”
“Ah, the bottom line,” she said with a nod. “I can understand that.”
Great. Another woman with dollar signs in her eyes. Wonderful. Too bad that insight didn’t diminish his growing fascination with the gently bowed, slightly glossy shape and texture of her lips.
“Is there a way out of here?” he demanded. “A private way?”
The security guard looked around to catch her bearings. He noticed that the gold tag on her shirt read “Deveaux.”
“Are you staying at the Hyatt next door?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then follow me. There’s a lower tunnel reserved for authorized personnel. It’ll lead you out the back and all we’ll have to do is cross a parking lot.”
She swept her hand forward then started toward a stairwell that would take them to ground level. Her step was light and trouble-free, saucy and sexy and dangerous as hell. Her hips rocked with a rhythm only she could hear—but Nick tuned in, despite his best efforts not to. Queen during their hey-day. Joan Jett and Pat Benatar jamming with the Bangles.
He moistened his lips, wondering if he’d ever met a woman who could make him regret so much and want so much, so fast.
“Thank you for taking control out there,” he said, knowing he owed her some genuine gratitude and hoping a little more conversation would tamp down his growing physical interest. He reminded himself that she had a sharp tongue and decisive opinions—two strikes for any woman he wasn’t related to by blood. As much as he’d tried, he couldn’t change the LaRocca women or their daughters. And as much as he loved them, he didn’t need another headstrong woman trying to lead him by the nose.
“The guards assigned to me didn’t seem to know what to do,” he added.
“Yeah, well, they’re guys,” she concluded quickly. “They probably figured too much force and they’d hurt someone.”
Nick chuckled. “I don’t doubt that you could do some serious damage if you wanted to.”
“Considering my height and weight, it takes a concerted effort for me to hurt someone.” She spoke brusquely, totally oblivious to the double meaning to his comment.
Or at least, he assumed she was oblivious. He wasn’t so sure when he caught her sharp glance and a fleeting grin. “Women in my field compensate with speed, agility and, well…brains.”
Not to mention soft curves, dark blond hair and bright blue eyes. The woman who’d saved him, he decided, was as close to lethal as strychnine.
“Have you been a security guard long?” Nick knew he shouldn’t have asked the question, shouldn’t have invited more conversation. The more she talked, the more he wanted to know.
“About two weeks,” she said, her voice softening
