Книга - The Taming of a Wild Child

The Taming of a Wild Child
Kimberly Lang


Waking up in a stranger’s bed is not how socialite Lorelei LaBlanc planned on spending the morning after the night before. From now on…a) No more secret hook-ups with Donovan St James – he’s the last man on earth she’d want to share a room with, never mind a king-size bed!b) Maintain a professional persona at all times. He’s a hard-hitting journalist who’s always on the lookout for the latest scoop…surely she’s perfect tabloid fodder?c) Keep friends close but enemies closer. Donovan may look like the ultimate poster-boy, but his intentions are anything but PG-rated…‘The story is captivating from beginning to end; it exceeded all my expectations – one of Kimberly Lang’s best books.’ – Gail, Receptionist, Keele










“Lorelei …”

It was now or never. If she walked away now she’d regret it. But this was a huge risk; if Donovan turned her down, her humiliation would be everlasting.

Rising up on her toes, until only inches separated them, she dug deep and let the ache inside her force the words out. “I want to know.”

Sensations hit her with the force of a hurricane, canceling out her higher brain functions. The feel and taste of Donovan was both new and familiar at the same time, giving reality to what had only been a vague craving before.

His mouth was hot and demanding, each stroke of his tongue licking her like fire and sending sensation searing through her entire body. The solid bulk of his chest pressed against hers, anchoring her to the brick wall at her back and trapping her in a cage of warm male flesh.

It was divine.

This was what she’d been trying to remember. This was what her body knew, what her skin had been trying to tell her about. Memories of the sensations butted at her brain, allowing her to savor the anticipation of the next touch, the next taste, while somehow knowing how good it would be at the same time.

“My house is seven blocks from here.”

She felt Donovan smile against her temple as his hands splayed across the small of her back to pull her even closer. “Mine’s four.”

Her decision had been made the moment she touched him, but when he didn’t move she realized Donovan must be waiting for a response.

“Sounds good.”




About the Author


KIMBERLY LANG hid romance novels behind her textbooks in junior high, and even a Master’s programme in English couldn’t break her obsession with dashing heroes and happily ever after. A ballet dancer turned English teacher, Kimberly married an electrical engineer and turned her life into an ongoing episode of When Dilbert Met Frasier. She and her Darling Geek live in beautiful North Alabama, with their one Amazing Child—who, unfortunately, shows an aptitude for sports.

Visit Kimberly at www.booksbykimberly.com for the latest news—and don’t forget to say hi while you’re there!

Recent titles by the same author:

REDEMPTION OF A HOLLYWOOD STARLET

THE POWER AND THE GLORY

Kimberly also writes for Mills & Boon


RIVA™. Her titles include:

THE PRIVILEGED AND THE DAMNED

GIRL’S GUIDE TO FLIRTING WITH DANGER

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk




The Taming Of

A Wild Child

Kimberly Lang







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)








To Jane, who swoops in to save my butt with everything from food to child care and only ever asks for a book to read in return. Here you go, Jane; this book is for you, with my heartfelt thanks for being a super friend.

And I owe another shout out to the fantastic Cristina Lynn (www.CristinaLynn.com), who gave me the perfect song for the epilogue to Lorelei and Donovan’s story.




CHAPTER ONE


THE ONLY THING WORSE than waking up naked in a strange bed was realizing there was someone else sleeping in the bed, too.

Someone male.

The bright light on the other side of her eyelids sent pain streaking through Lorelei LaBlanc’s head as she tried to piece together exactly what the hell was going on … and who she’d just spent the night with.

She forced herself to lie still; jumping right up might wake her companion, and she didn’t want to get straight into a confrontation before she had a handle on things.

Think, Lorelei, think.

She had a hangover that would slay a mule, and it hurt to think. How much champagne had she consumed in the end?

Connor and Vivi’s wedding had gone off without a hitch; all of the four hundred guests had had a fabulous time. The church had never looked better, and the hotel had outdone itself with both the decor and the food. She’d been at the head table for dinner, but once the dancing had begun and the champagne had really started flowing … Well, that was where things began to get a little fuzzy. She remembered having a small, good-natured disagreement with Donovan St. James over …

Her eyes flew open.

Oh. My. God.

Bits and pieces of the night before came rushing at her with distressing speed and clarity.

Carefully, so as not to aggravate her hangover, she rolled slowly to her other side. Sure enough, Donovan lay there on his back, bare-chested, with only a sheet covering his hips and one leg. His hands were stacked behind his head as he stared at the ceiling.

She swore under her breath.

“Right there with you, Princess.”

The amused sigh in Donovan’s voice put her nerves on edge. “What the hell happened last night?”

He had the gall to look pointedly at the tangled sheets—which she was currently trying to pull over herself in a belated attempt at modesty—and raise an eyebrow. She really wasn’t ready to go to the whole we had sex bit just yet. She cleared her throat. “I mean, how? Why?”

“How? Buckets of champagne. And there were tequila shots involved. As for why …” He shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me.”

Tequila explained a lot. Jose Cuervo was not her friend. I’ve done some stupid stuff in my life, but this? With Donovan St. James? And now? A chill ran down her spine. If she’d publicly done something … Oh, her family was really going to kill her this time. Her sister would be first in line.

“Please just tell me we didn’t make a scene at the reception,” she whispered.

“I don’t think so. It’s a little blurry, but I think the reception was pretty much over before …”

That alleviated a bit of her immediate worry; being stupid wasn’t quite so bad as long as there wasn’t an audience for the stupidity. Now, though, she had to face the fact she’d had sex with Donovan St. James.

No red-blooded woman would question her taste. Donovan had poster-boy good looks: deep green eyes, inky black hair with a slight wave that he wore long enough to look a little dangerous, and skin the color of the café au lait she desperately needed to combat this monster hangover. The high cheekbones and square jaw now shadowed with dark stubble spoke to a heritage as mixed as New Orleans itself—if one could pick the best bits and discard the rest.

Donovan definitely rated high on the hummina scale. Good looks, though, were pretty much all he had going for him, in her opinion. Why had he even been invited to the wedding? It must have been a professional or courtesy invite. At least a hundred of the guests had fallen into that category. But the St. James family was the worst kind of nouveau riche—using money to buy influence and respectability—and if Donovan had any class at all, he’d have RSVP’d no to what had obviously only been a polite gesture.

But money couldn’t buy class, that was for sure.

And she’d slept with him. She must have reached an astonishingly new level of intoxication to completely lose all her self-respect. I am never drinking again.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Lorelei. I’m not real keen on this new development, either.”

Donovan sat up—slowly, she noted, implying his hangover was equally as miserable as hers—and reached for his clothes. Lorelei averted her eyes, but not before she got a good long look at broad shoulders, a trim waist and a very nice, very firm butt. Donovan ticked up another notch on that hummina scale before she noticed the red claw marks marring his back.

She’d enjoyed herself, it seemed. Pity she didn’t have a better recollection of what had led to those marks. Although she felt like hell, underneath the hangover was a pleasant muscle soreness that spoke to a good time.

The silence felt awkward and uncomfortable. Despite her reputation, Lorelei wasn’t an expert on morning-after protocols, but she’d brazen through this somehow. Clutching the sheet to her breasts, she let it trail behind her as she grabbed her dress off the floor and headed for the bathroom. She thought she might have heard a sigh as the door closed behind her.

The sight in the mirror was not pretty. Lorelei splashed water on her face and tried to wipe away the worst of the mascara circles under her eyes. Then she finger-combed her hair until it didn’t look quite so wild and made use of the mini-bottle of mouthwash provided by the hotel. Feeling marginally human, she righted her dress and slipped into it.

She could only hope that no one would see her heading back to her room as nothing said night of debauchery quite like wearing a cocktail dress before breakfast. Six months of very hard work could be shot all to hell.

Of course she had a much more pressing—and disturbing—problem right outside that door which she had to deal with first.

“Okay,” she said to her reflection, “you need a dignified exit.” Taking a deep breath, she opened the bathroom door.

Donovan stood by the window, looking out over Canal Street, but he turned once he heard the door open. He’d pulled on a pair of jeans—ending up in your own hotel room instead of someone else’s had perks, like clothes—but he’d stopped before adding a shirt. Lorelei had a hard time keeping her eyes from wandering as he wordlessly handed her a bottle of water. She nodded her thanks.

“There’s aspirin, too,” he said, dodging past her into the bathroom and returning with a bottle. “Care for a couple?”

He shook the bottle, causing her head to throb, and she was pleased to see him wince at the noise, as well.

Lorelei felt like she was in a bad movie. “Look, I think we would both agree that last night should not have happened.”

“That’s for sure.”

She stamped down the remark she wanted to make at that insult. Dignity. “So we’ll just pretend it didn’t happen. I won’t mention it to anyone and you won’t write about it, okay?”

From the look on Donovan’s face, he didn’t like the implication, and Lorelei worried that she might have made a tactical error. Donovan had turned his high-school hobby of flaying people alive for sport into a profitable career. He destroyed careers, lives, families. Rumor had it that he was looking for another big story. People tried to avoid pinging onto his radar screen; no one with a shred of self-preservation would bait him intentionally.

“I limit myself to topics of public interest, and even if this fit the definition—which it doesn’t—it’s not something—wasn’t anything—to brag about.”

Dignity be damned. She was not letting that slide by unchallenged. “I wouldn’t know. Must not have been that memorable an experience.”

“Then forgetting it happened at all won’t be a problem for you.”

“No, it won’t.” That was a lie, but Donovan had no way of knowing better, so it was a safe lie. And it allowed her to hold her head up as she gathered the rest of her things.

Her small purse was upside down by the door, her phone, lipstick and room key spilling out. Not far from that was one of her shoes, then Donovan’s tie and shoes, then her other shoe. It was a breadcrumb trail of shame that led straight to the king-size bed.

Lord, was there anything less dignified than searching for your underwear? She picked up Donovan’s jacket and gave it a shake. Nothing. Dropping to her knees, she looked under the bed. She found an empty condom wrapper, alleviating one of her fears, but finding two more had her cringing.

No sign of her underwear, though.

“If you’re looking for these …” Donovan drawled. She looked up to see him dangling her panties from one finger. She bit her tongue and settled for shooting him a dirty look as she jerked them from his hand and tucked them into her purse. The addition of the undergarment, as tiny as it was, was too much for the little bag, and it refused to close. Heat flushing her face, Lorelei had no choice but to take the extra time to put them on.

Funnily enough, she felt a little less flustered once she had. Underwear was a form of armor, it seemed.

Squaring her shoulders, she went to the door and examined the fire-safety map posted there. According to the red X marking her location as room 712, she could easily get to the fire stairs, go down one floor and she’d come out only a few doors away from her own room. Excellent. The chances of running into someone she knew had just decreased exponentially. Something might actually go her way this morning.

“Planning your escape route?”

She turned to see Donovan stacking the pillows on the bed into a comfortable back-prop, and then reclining, remote control in hand. He wasn’t even looking at her, and, if anything, he now sounded bored. Obviously this was not an out-of-the-ordinary morning for him. Why am I not surprised?

“Exactly. Goodbye, Donovan. I hope I don’t see you again for a very long time.”

She didn’t wait for his reply. Cracking the door, she peeked into the hall and found it empty. With at least a hundred of last night’s guests having taken advantage of the location to enjoy Connor and Vivi’s open bar, she just needed her luck to hold for a few minutes. The quick dash to the stairwell was no problem, and her stiletto heels clacked on the stairs as she moved as fast as possible in the tight skirt. At the door to the sixth floor she paused, took out her room key, and took a deep breath. Another peek showed two people in the hall, but neither of them looked familiar. Just to be safe, she waited until they were at the elevators before making the last break for her door.

Only to find that her stupid key didn’t work.

Donovan was relieved Lorelei had left in a huff. He’d been awake for about fifteen minutes before her, and he’d spent that time anticipating a number of equally horrific and awkward scenarios.

But Lorelei had gone straight to indignation and huff—which, in this case, had been more than he’d dared hope for.

Of all the women who’d attended what was arguably the biggest society wedding of the decade, he’d managed to hook up with Lorelei LaBlanc. He’d known both Connor and Vivi at least tangentially since high school and, while they might not be close friends or anything, they were business associates and often traveled in the same social circles now.

He might be considered an interloper by some in those social circles, since his blood wasn’t quite as blue as theirs, but no one had the courage to say that to his face anymore. And, while he might not have generations of Old South manners ingrained into him, even he knew it was bad form to bed the sister of the bride after the reception.

Yeah, pretending it had never happened was an excellent idea.

Another excellent idea was liberal quantities of aspirin and coffee until he felt human again. That might take days.

The little two-cup coffeemaker on the desk didn’t have the best quality coffee included, but it would do for now. He set it to start and the smell of coffee soon filled the room.

The jackhammering behind his eyes had been honestly earned. He’d lost count of the tequila shots, but there might have been a bet involved about who could drink who under the table. He and Lorelei had never been friends, never hung out together, so how they’d got to that point last night was a mystery.

Lorelei had been a couple of years or so behind him in school—and they certainly hadn’t traveled in the same circles in those days. St. Katharine’s Prep was the school of choice for New Orleans’s best families. A safe haven for their precious children from the riff-raff of society, with only a couple of charity-case scholarship students as a nod to “diversity.” The Lorelei he remembered had been spoiled, narcissistic and stuck up. Even when he’d morphed from one of those scholarship students to the son of a major donor by his senior year, Lorelei hadn’t deigned to give him the time of day.

Oddly, he respected her for that. She might be shallow, but she’d proved herself to have slightly more depth than most of her socialite friends when the sudden influx of money into his family’s bank account hadn’t changed her attitude toward him at all.

Tequila had, though.

He had a few hours before checkout, and the need for a nap was nearly overwhelming, but if he headed on home he could nap in his own bed—a bed that did not now carry the scent of Lorelei’s perfume. He might not remember exactly everything that happened last night, but he remembered enough that the light fragrance sent a stab of pure desire through him and made the scratch marks on his back burn. Lorelei certainly had stamina.

He turned on the TV for background noise and picked a news station to listen to while he waited on the coffee. He still had to decide on a topic for Monday’s column, and …

The phone rang. Not his phone, but the hotel’s phone. Who would be calling him here? “Hello?”

“Open your door and let me back in.” The voice was quiet, whispery.

“Who is this?”

“Oh, for the love of … How many other women would need to get back into your room this morning?”

“Why aren’t you in your own room?”

“Because my key won’t work.” It sounded as if Lorelei was spitting the words through clenched teeth. “I’m now stuck in the stairwell, so will you please open your door and let me in?”

The image of Lorelei hiding in a stairwell caused him to laugh—which then made his head hurt. He heard her sharp intake of breath, followed by some muttering that probably wasn’t very flattering to him. It was tempting to leave her there, just for the amusement factor and a much-needed ego-check. But Connor and Vivi might not be happy to hear about that.

He relented. “Come on.”

He returned the phone to its cradle and crossed the room. Opening the door, he stuck his head out. A few doors down, he saw Lorelei’s dark head do the same. After seeing that the hallway was empty, she sprinted for his door, nearly mowing him down in her haste to get inside. “You could have just knocked, you know.”

Lorelei didn’t seem to appreciate that statement, shooting him the pissiest look he’d ever seen. “This is a nightmare.”

“Just go down to the front desk and they’ll recode your key.”

It seemed Lorelei had an even pissier look—and this one called him all kinds of names, as well. “I am trying to avoid seeing people.” She gestured to her dress. “It’s rather obvious that I didn’t spend the night in my own room, and I don’t want people wondering where I did spend it. Or who with.”

“Since when do you care?” Lorelei was a LaBlanc. One of the benefits of being a LaBlanc was complete certainty of your place in the food chain. Lorelei could do pretty much whatever she wanted with almost complete impunity. And she had.

“I care. Let’s just leave it at that. Just call Housekeeping and ask for towels or something. Whoever brings them will have a master key and can let me into my room.”

“That’s a lot of assumptions.”

“What?”

“I sincerely doubt that any hotel employee who wanted to keep their job would just let you in without a way to verify that you are the registered occupant of the room. And there’s no way to do that without going through the front desk.”

She looked as if she wanted to argue that point. Did the woman seriously not understand what she was asking?

Lorelei cursed an unladylike blue streak and flopped dramatically on the bed. Then she bounced right back up like the bed was on fire, cheeks flaming.

Honestly, he had to admit it was a good look for Lorelei. The pink tint offset her fair skin and dark hair and called attention to her high cheekbones. Of course he’d be hard-pressed to decide what wouldn’t be a good look for Lorelei. Even nursing what had to be a massive hangover, she could still stop traffic. There were shadows under those big blue eyes—eyes that were currently shooting daggers at him—but they only emphasized her ethereal, almost fragile-looking bone structure.

That same structure gave her a willowy look, all long and lean, that made her seem taller than she actually was, and the slightly wrinkled cocktail dress she’d worn to the reception last night only made her legs look longer. The memory of those legs wrapped around him …

Lorelei was stronger than she looked. The look of fragile elegance was misleading. There was nothing fragile about the personality behind those looks, and Lorelei was pacing now with anger and frustration.

“What the hell am I going to do?”

He sighed and reached for his phone. “Let me call Dave.”

“And this Dave can help how?”

“Dave is the head of security here. He’ll be able to sort this out. Discreetly, of course.”

That stopped her pacing. “You just happen to know the head of security for this hotel?”

“Yes.” He paused in scrolling for Dave’s number and looked up to see her staring at him suspiciously. “Is that a problem?”

“It just seems convenient.” She shrugged. “Considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Your job. Having an in with security here just seems … Well, convenient.”

The insult, while not unexpected considering the source, and certainly not the worst he’d heard, still rankled. His columns and commentary were syndicated in newspapers around the country, and he’d built his platform and audience the old-fashioned way. She might not like his style, but he’d earned his place in the national discourse. He didn’t need an “in” with anyone to get his leads—hell, these days he had people falling over themselves to provide all the information he needed and then some.

He tossed the phone on the bed. “You know, I don’t have to do you any favors, and I find myself quickly losing the inclination altogether.”

Lorelei’s lips pressed together until they disappeared. He could practically see the way she was fighting back a snappy, snarky comeback, but she finally nodded. “You’re right. My apologies. Please call your friend.”

It was terse, and not completely sincere, but he’d be the bigger person. Accepting the apology at face value, he called Dave. He glossed over the situation as much as he could, trying to avoid mention of Lorelei’s name, how she came to be in his room and why she just couldn’t go to the front desk like a normal person would in this situation. After some laughter and speculation on Dave’s part that Donovan didn’t dare relay to Lorelei, he hung up. “Someone from Security will be up with a key to your room shortly. You’ll just need to hang out here a little while longer.”

“Well, it’s not like I have anyplace else to go.” She walked over to the small coffeepot and asked, “Do you mind? I feel near death.”

“Help yourself.”

She did, and then sat in the leather chair. Legs crossed at the ankle, she held the cup with both hands and sipped gratefully. It was an incongruous picture: a disheveled Lorelei, hair rioting around her face and shoulders, in an obviously expensive, though slightly-the-worse-for-wear dress and stiletto heels, sitting primly in his hotel room as if they were politely having tea in the parlor.

And he knew exactly what kind of underwear she had on.

Somehow this was even more awkward than the wake-up-naked-and-get-dressed part. Were they supposed to make small talk now or something? What would an appropriate topic be?

There was small comfort in the fact that Lorelei seemed equally at a loss. He’d bet this situation was not covered in cotillion classes. She studied the art on the wall like it was an Old Master, pondered her coffee like it held the meaning of life, then finally turned her attention to her fingernails. He kept one eye on the TV and feigned interest in the talking heads on the morning show. He’d made his living by always having something to say, but this time his vaunted golden tongue failed him.

Lorelei cleared her throat. “So, will you be writing about the wedding?”

Lord, she really had no idea what he did for a living. “I don’t do society news, Lorelei. I came as a guest to the wedding, nothing more.”

“I had no idea you’d become such good friends with Connor and Vivi.”

“I sit on two boards with Vivi. We share an interest in the arts. Connor and I have several mutual friends. I wouldn’t exactly call us close, but I probably know them at least as well as a third of that guest list.”

“They are a popular couple.”

“Indeed.”

“And it was an amazing event, start to finish.”

It had been a star-studded event, thanks to Connor’s fame, and the entire ranks of the New Orleans elite had been there, traveling in their usual pack. “I expected nothing less.”

Lorelei nodded, and he realized that topic had now run its course. Well, that had killed a couple of minutes. How long would it take Security to bring Lorelei a key?

She seemed to be wondering the same thing. “I wish they’d hurry.”

“Me, too. I have things I need to do.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you.”

His three options were to take a shower, take a nap or go home—none of which he could do while Lorelei was parked in his room. “I’m sure they’ll be here shortly.”

Hard on those words there was a knock at the door, and Lorelei jumped up as he went to answer it. Her sigh of relief when the man identified himself as the assistant head of security was audible from across the room. He asked to see her ID, verified her as the occupant of the room, then handed her a key. “Would you like me to escort you to your room, miss?”

“No!” she practically shouted, before she caught herself and lowered her voice. “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

The man nodded, then left without question, and Donovan wondered exactly what Dave had told him about his assignment. Of course it probably wasn’t the oddest thing Security had ever done: this hotel catered to an elite crowd, and that elite had probably made far more questionable requests of Security in the past. He’d moved more toward analysis and away from the “shocking exposé” camp of journalism himself, but he’d bet there were all kinds of stories to be told from this hotel.

Lorelei cleared her throat, bringing him back to his own little drama. “Goodbye. Again. Thank you for your assistance, and, um, have a nice life.”

The re-do of her exit lacked the dramatic huff this time, but it retained its silliness as Lorelei once again checked the hall and slipped out like a bumbling spy in a bad movie.

At least he knew she wouldn’t be back this time. Oddly, that seemed to be a little of a letdown. Lorelei certainly had entertainment value.

Although he’d been thinking more about the events of the morning, not last night, another particularly entertaining visual flashed across his mind.

And that quickly answered his question about what he’d do now: a cold shower was calling his name.




CHAPTER TWO


A GUILTY CONSCIENCE was a terrible thing. It wasn’t something Lorelei was overly familiar with, as she intentionally kept away from situations that might lead to one. She had regrets, sure, but she’d always lived—well, until recently—by the philosophy that she’d rather regret the things she’d done than regret that she’d never done them at all. So why did this thing with Donovan seem to be haunting her?

It wasn’t even worry over what people might say. As far as she could tell, no one knew. Vivi and Connor had left for their honeymoon and Vivi hadn’t said a word. She’d waited on pins and needles for the news to circulate, but it seemed she was going to get away with it. She’d gotten lucky by not screwing the whole plan up at the eleventh hour.

So the worry had to be over Donovan himself.

Over the last three days, more of her memory had returned—but not the parts she’d have liked. If she had to carry around the knowledge that she’d had sex with Donovan St. James, she’d like to be in possession of memories of the good stuff, too. She had all the knowledge she needed to know that she’d enjoyed herself, but she lacked the memory of the proof. It seemed like a shame.

She rolled over and punched her pillow into shape. Vague, incomplete dreams were leaving her tired and grouchy in the mornings and, even worse, leaving her with a ghostly, frustrated feeling.

Maybe that was why she couldn’t quite shake the whole situation off: she wanted that memory and her brain was determined to wring out the tequila and find it. Maybe she wasn’t feeling guilty; maybe she was just confusing one nagging feeling with another.

And now she had to be hallucinating, because she could hear Donovan’s voice. She sat up. That wasn’t a hallucination; that really was Donovan’s voice, coming from her living room. What the hell? Shock rocketed through her as she heaved herself out of bed, covers flying. She was in the hallway before she caught herself in the middle of the ridiculous thought.

It was coming from the TV.

“Morning.” Callie sat on the couch, hugging a cup of coffee and watching the morning news. She was dressed already, her backpack on the coffee table, ready to go.

Although this was technically still Vivi’s house, Vivi had moved out six months ago, after news of her engagement to Connor hit the press. The little house on Frenchman Street just couldn’t provide the privacy and security Connor and Vivi needed. Lorelei had enjoyed the solitude for about two weeks, but had then offered Vivi’s old room to a friend-of-a-friend just so she’d have some company.

It hadn’t quite worked. Between Callie’s schedule and her latest romance with some guy she’d met at the library, she was rarely home. It was only slightly better than living alone.

Callie was a news junkie—the serious stuff, not the pop-culture and human-interest fluff—and now Donovan’s face filled the screen as he droned on about something being unconstitutional. Callie was rapturously hanging on every word, and Lorelei wondered if it was because anything unconstitutional was catnip for Loyola Law students or because the words were coming out of Donovan’s pretty face.

Lorelei wished she’d purchased a smaller, lower-quality TV, because the sight of Donovan in HD sent a jolt through her. She tried to brush it away and act casual as she continued to the kitchen and the coffeepot. She moved in slow motion, killing time, but Donovan was still talking—no surprise there, really; the man truly loved to hear himself talk. Finally she couldn’t stall any longer and had to go back out into the living room.

“No class today?” she asked as she took the other corner of the couch and settled in.

“The air-conditioning in the building is broken. They had to cancel classes.”

Lorelei nodded. The older buildings in New Orleans—those built before the invention of air-conditioning and designed for the heat—could sometimes be habitable, if not comfortable, in August, but not the newer buildings, with their low ceilings and windowless rooms.

“I’m meeting my study group at the library instead. What about you? Not going to the studio?”

“With Connor away, things are pretty slow at the moment. I’ll go in later and check messages and things, but a vacation for the boss is a vacation for the minions, as well.”

People might think that Connor had hired her as assistant and office manager for ConMan Studios out of pure nepotism—and that did have a little to do with it—but the truth was she was good at the job, much to everyone’s surprise. She’d finally started to earn a little respect; somehow her working for her brother-in-law impressed people more than just working for her father, even though the positions were very similar.

And she liked it, too. Who wouldn’t want to be part of a rock star’s entourage? It was exciting, and the high-profile nature of the job meant people knew she was actually earning her keep.

“I’m kind of glad things will be slow. Being Vivi for the next three weeks is going to be crazy enough.”

Callie nodded, but she wasn’t really listening. She still had most of her attention on the TV—where, thankfully, Donovan was wrapping up. “Donovan St. James is right. The city is just asking for a major lawsuit.”

Lorelei didn’t bother to ask about what. “I’ve always wondered how someone becomes a pundit,” she said in what she hoped sounded like idle curiosity. “Is there a degree program for that? A Bachelor’s in Talking Headism?”

Callie shrugged. “I think you just have to make a name for yourself in politics or journalism to prove that you’re smart enough to have something sensible to say, and then show that you’re articulate enough to say it on TV.”

“Then how did Donovan St. James get anointed?”

Callie looked at her like she was crazy. “Because he’s freaking brilliant.”

“So you say.”

“No, so says the world. Haven’t you ever read his column?”

“Not since he destroyed the DuBois and Dillard families.”

“They brought that on themselves. Corruption tends to bite you in the butt like that when it’s uncovered.”

Lorelei had sympathy for her friends’ families. It had rocked everyone’s world. “But Donovan seemed to enjoy it. He certainly got a lot of attention out of their misery.”

“That is what got him attention initially. But in the last three years that attention has grown because of his insightful analysis and dogged chasing of facts. When he comments on politics and issues, people listen. He’s syndicated in newspapers and on websites all over the country. That’s why he’s on TV all the time.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.” Hmm, it seemed she should have.

“Now you do. Should you decide to get more up-to-date on the rest of the world, his columns wouldn’t be a bad place to start. There’s an archive on his website. Good stuff there. I’ve even quoted him in some of my papers.”

Well, it seemed that Donovan had been out making a name for himself over the years and she’d been ignorant of the whole thing. Callie didn’t need to look so darn surprised. Just because she used to go to school with Donovan, it didn’t mean she was an expert on his life—or that she wanted to be.

Politics—and the blow-hard talking heads that covered it—gave her a headache. The news depressed her. She heard enough from Callie to keep her feeling at least as well-informed as the average citizen; she didn’t need to go looking for more than that.

Callie tossed the remote her way and grabbed her backpack. “I’m gone. Some of us might go grab some drinks after we’re done with study group. Want to come?”

“Thanks, but not tonight.” Her personal prohibition was still in place—the memory of Sunday morning was still too fresh even to consider breaking it.

“Call me if you change your mind. Bye.”

“Bye.”

A second later Callie reappeared. “Today’s paper.” She tossed it on the coffee table. “By the way, Donovan’s column runs in the editorial section—if you’re interested, that is.”

Once Callie had left, Lorelei unrolled the paper, flipped to the middle and pulled out what her grandmother and mother still called the “Wednesday Pages,” even though it was now a glossy, magazine-style insert about society’s doings. There, on the cover, was a full-color picture of Vivi and Connor on their way out of the cathedral. The caption promised a full write-up and more pictures inside. Lorelei flipped to the pages. There were some great shots of the guests going into the church, and a few from the reception. Most of them focused on the star-studded guest list of Connor’s friends in the music business, but there were a few photos of New Orleans’ business and society leaders. She had made the cut, too, in a photo of the bridesmaids and Mom and Dad with Vivi, right before they went into the church. Donovan was in a picture as well, standing in a group with some city councilmen and the heads of three charitable organizations Vivi worked with.

The picture of Donovan made her think of Callie’s parting shot, and she flipped to the editorial section to find his opinion of a bill being argued in Congress this week. It seemed well-written and impressive in its commentary, but she’d need a primer about the bill itself before she could form a cogent opinion.

Lord, even his writing had that condescending, sarcastic tone. Donovan had a hell of a chip on his shoulder.

She folded the newspaper decisively. Time to shake off this whole Donovan thing and move on. Forget it ever happened. She’d go to the studio, get some work done, maybe meet Callie for dinner, if not drinks. She needed to look over Vivi’s schedule, start preparing herself and firm up her plan of action. She would take center stage tomorrow. Her first big appearance in her new temporary role.

Butterflies battered her insides. It was stage fright—but not because she would be center stage. This was make or break time. If she screwed this up, she’d only prove to everyone that she really was a flaky screw-up, an airhead with only her trust fund going for her. But if it went well … She sighed. If it went well she’d be on her way—not just “the other LaBlanc girl” anymore. The last six months had been building toward this moment, and the pressure was doing bad things to her.

It was just one more reason why she needed to forget about what happened with Donovan and focus on what was important. Staying busy was a very good idea; it would give her mind something to think about other than Donovan, and soon enough she’d be past this whole embarrassing situation.

She picked up her coffee cup and the society section again, intending to set it aside for Vivi, when her own name caught her eye.

Several of the younger guests continued the celebrations long into the night, keeping the bar open and the staff hopping. Lorelei LaBlanc, sister of the bride and Maid of Honor, swapped her bridesmaid’s dress for a flirty, sparkly number and danced the night away with some of the city’s most eligible bachelors. Interestingly, she and the most eligible bachelor of all, journalist and TV commentator Donovan St. James, seemed to be quite friendly—much to the dismay of the other eligible bachelors and bachelorettes.

Lorelei nearly dropped her coffee.

Oh, merde.

St. James Media looked like any average office building from the outside, but within the company the building was called “Whiz Castle.” It had been built on the success of an infomercial for the unfortunately named Toilet Whiz, which had taken the company from struggling to superstar nearly overnight and made them the largest direct response and infomercial production company in the South. His father had an original Toilet Whiz framed and hanging outside Studio One in a place of honor.

The sight still made Donovan laugh every time he passed it. Part of Donovan’s success as a TV personality came from the fact he always seemed to be amused about something when the cameras rolled; only a few people knew it was because he’d just passed a framed Toilet Whiz.

Donovan had an office right down the hall from his father’s, but he rarely used it. He wasn’t a part of the business—infomercials had given him a comfortable checking-account balance and paid his college tuition, but he wasn’t interested in the actual production of them—but since his siblings had offices in the building Dad had given him one, too.

He could have used it, but he far preferred to work in his own space, where there were fewer distractions and his tendency to work odd hours went unquestioned. Because he was so rarely there, his office had a sterile, unlived-in feeling. It was expertly and expensively decorated, and it gave him a place to hang plaques and pictures and things, but he couldn’t actually work in there.

He was using the studios more often these days, though, as his TV appearance schedule picked up. Their facilities and staff were truly top-notch, and he’d found he rather liked using the family’s home field. His brothers had even expanded the studio’s capabilities, and St. James Media was getting traffic from a lot of famous faces these days.

Maybe he had contributed something to the family business, after all.

However, it was proving quite handy to have the office to use as a place to drop off his stuff and put on a tie before he went on air. Unknotting the noose around his neck, he headed back toward his office, ready to go home.

His father’s secretary followed him down the long hallway, talking a mile a minute, and he listened with half an ear. As he opened his office door and saw Lorelei sitting on the low sofa under the window, he wished he’d paid a bit more attention.

How had she known he’d be here?

He closed the door behind him. “Lorelei. This is … unexpected.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Oh, really?” Sarcasm dripped off her words.

“Yeah. Your ‘have a nice life’ statement kind of implied you wouldn’t be dropping by to chat.”

“That was before we made the newspaper.”

“We?”

“Yes, we.” She sounded downright irritated about it.

“When? For what?”

“This morning. In the write-up about the wedding.”

“And you came by to tell me about it?”

“I rather assumed you’d already know.”

This was obviously going to take more than just a minute. He sat on the edge of his desk. “Uh, no. I usually skip that part of the paper.”

“Well, it might not be as far-reaching as that transportation bill, but it certainly rocks this little part of the world.”

The mention of his column caught him off-guard. He wouldn’t have thought Lorelei read the editorial section of any newspaper. And normally he’d be surprised that the mention of something two private citizens possibly did at a private function could be considered earth-rocking in any part of the world, but he’d humor her for the moment. “What did it say?”

In response, Lorelei pulled a torn page out of her purse and shoved it at him. It took a second for him to get through a rundown of the guest list, what everyone was wearing and a description of the ice sculptures, but finally he found Lorelei’s name and his. He turned the paper over, looking for more, but on the back was an advertisement for a casino. “That’s it?”

Lorelei’s jaw dropped. “You don’t think that’s enough?”

“I don’t actually see the problem, Lorelei.”

She looked on the edge of a sputter. “My mother reads the Wednesday Pages like the Bible.”

“As does mine. So?”

This time Lorelei did sputter. “So? That’s all you have to say?”

“Well, I don’t see a reason to freak out.”

“Obviously your mother hasn’t been texting you all morning, looking for an explanation because half the city is asking her for an explanation.”

So that was what had her panties in a twist. Damn it. I shouldn’t have thought about her panties. Especially since he knew for a fact that her taste in undergarments ran to the tiny and lacy. “Definitely not.”

“Well, that figures.”

He could hear the sour that must be nice tone under those words. “Look, Lorelei. We don’t owe anyone an explanation for anything—much less some busybody’s baseless speculation in what is little more than a gossip column.”

Lorelei’s eyes widened. “‘Baseless speculations?’”

“Well, it was baseless—at least until your little freak-out gave it credence. The very fact you came running down here makes it look like there really is something going on. Something more than what was publicly witnessed. Someone went fishing and you took the bait. You’ve pretty much told the world we had sex.”

Her eyes widened. “For the love of …” Lorelei obviously hadn’t thought it through until now, and the realization set her pacing in frustration. She started muttering to herself, and he caught the occasional phrase about her mother or Vivi killing her. Even Connor’s name came up once. Finally she stopped pacing and turned to him. “What do you suggest we do?”

He didn’t see the big deal. “We don’t do anything. I’m going to go about my business as always. You can do whatever you think best.”

“Donovan, I’m asking for your help here. You may not care that there’s gossip in the paper, but I do.”

“Since when?” There was certain information a person couldn’t avoid, no matter how uninterested they might be. That included news of the adventures of the young, wealthy, beautiful and fabulous. Lorelei had made the papers plenty of times with far more descriptive rundowns on her activities.

“I know I haven’t cared in the past, but things are different now.”

Her voice lost the impatience and the snark, and for a moment she sounded almost vulnerable. But she was completely overreacting. This was not nearly the catastrophe Lorelei seemed to think it was, and, left alone, it would all blow over soon enough.

“I know I’ve never been a saint like Vivi. Never will be, either.” She smiled weakly, and he realized that it had to be tough to live up to an example like Vivi. “The thing is, with Vivi and Connor on their honeymoon, I’m going to be making appearances on their behalf—for the charities they represent and the organizations they support. I don’t need—and can’t have—this kind of gossip hanging over my head and coloring everyone’s thoughts.” Lorelei’s blue eyes were wide and earnest. She was serious. “It’s not just about me. It’s about them and their reputations and the organizations they do so much for. There’s a lot more at stake than just a little public embarrassment for me.”

He normally didn’t have any patience for the troubles of the children of the city’s elite. Connor and Vivi had been the exceptions that had slowly brought him around to a different view. They hadn’t sat on their trust funds or relied on family connections to coast through in a perfect life. They’d worked hard: Connor with his music career and Vivi with her art gallery and work with every non-profit organization in the parish. That he respected.

If Lorelei had hit him with anything else …

Damn. He felt himself buckling. When had he become such a sucker for a damsel in distress?

“Who did the write-up?”

Lorelei looked relieved as he relented. She glanced at the article for its byline. “Evelyn Jones.”

He knew Evelyn slightly through the newspaper. Her true calling was in tabloid gossip, and the New Orleans society pages were the closest she’d gotten. “Was she a guest at the wedding?”

Lorelei seemed to be thinking. “She was there. I’m pretty sure she left after the cake-cutting, though.”

“Then she’s reporting hearsay. Everyone in the bar that night was just as far gone as we were.”

“Except for the servers—”

“And the one who gave up that little tidbit probably got a nice fat tip for the story.”

“That’s a terrible—”

He shrugged off her outrage. “That’s the way it works. For a hundred bucks I could get a source to swear they once saw Mother Theresa doing keg stands. Times are tough all around. Money talks.”

Lorelei looked outraged. “That’s dishonest.”

“That’s tabloid journalism for you.”

“And you wonder why—”

“I don’t wonder anything, Lorelei. It is what it is.”

“So you’d sell someone’s reputation out just for money?” She looked worried. He assumed she’d only just now realized that he now had quite the story about her to sell. He wouldn’t even have to lie or embellish it, either.

“Calm down. I see no need to spread the news, and I certainly don’t need the money.”

Lorelei shot him a look he couldn’t decipher. Then she sighed and sank back onto the couch. “So how do I disprove something when I don’t know how much of it is true? I’m not a very good liar.” The corners of her mouth turned down as she confessed that like it was a character flaw.

“We did not engage in any PDA at the bar. It was later that …” He trailed off as Lorelei flushed that rosy color. “We laugh it off. That’s it. We and the others were just having a good time—as one does at a party—and any other claims have been exaggerated for effect.”

Lorelei started to nod, but caught herself. “Wait a second …” A suspicious look began to pull her eyebrows together. “How are you so certain that there was no PDA in the bar? You told me it was all fuzzy from the tequila.”

Damn. She’d caught that. “Fuzzy, yes. Total blackout … no.”

“So you do … remember?” The suspicion on her face turned to horror, and then that rosy embarrassed color she’d had since he’d brought up PDA deepened to an amazing shade of red. She crossed her arms over her chest again, but this time it was more a gesture of modesty, like he could see through her clothes. “Oh, my God. It was bad enough to know it happened even though I didn’t remember it. But to know that you do and I don’t …”

Now he felt like some kind of pervert, which made absolutely no sense at all. And he had no idea what he should say to take that vulnerable, disgusted-with-herself look off her face.

“Did I—? Did we …?” Lorelei pushed to her feet and picked up her purse. “Oh, God. I have to leave now.”

“It was just sex, Lorelei.”

“Oh, well, that completely alleviates my mind. Thank you.”

“You want a rundown? A play-by-play?”

Her eyes widened. “You could provide that?”

He let his silence answer her question.

She swallowed hard and cleared her throat. “Oh, this just keeps getting better and better.”

Now he felt like a twisted pervert. “Lorelei …”

She squared her shoulders. “I think you’re right, Donovan. We should just ignore the innuendo and laugh it off if anyone has the bad manners to bring it up. Forgetting it ever happened doesn’t seem to be an option anymore—at least for you—but we’ll go with pretending it didn’t.” Lorelei grabbed her purse from the couch and a bitter laugh escaped. “I mean, who’s really going to believe it, right? Me and you? Please. I can barely believe it. It’s absurd.”

The more she tried to convince herself, the more insulted he got. He wasn’t a leper, for God’s sake, and most women wouldn’t be acting as if they’d committed some gross, shameful, unforgivable sin like Lorelei was. Most normal women—women who weren’t like Lorelei and her ilk—considered him a pretty good catch and would be trying to capitalize on this instead of flagellating themselves over it. Their hook-up might have been insane, but it certainly hadn’t crossed over into the absurd. They were both of the same species, whether Lorelei wanted to admit that or not.

She might not remember it, but she’d enjoyed herself. It wasn’t as if he’d forced her into his bed, either. She’d been a willing, active participant who’d gone to sleep with a smile on her face.

His ego had had just about enough of the martyr act, and when Lorelei tried to brush past him, heading for the door, still muttering about absurdity, he grabbed her elbow and turned her to face him.

“I won’t have the ‘bad manners’ to bring this up the next time we meet, Princess, but at least let me leave you with the truth. It was hot, sweaty, athletic sex, and you enjoyed it. You’re quite flexible, you know.”

Lorelei swallowed hard. He had to give her credit, though. She met his eyes and never wavered as he described, in graphic detail, the way she’d ridden him like a polo pony and begged for more. Her pupils dilated until only a small ring of blue remained, and her breathing turned shallow. But as his skin heated with the memory and his erection pressed painfully against his zipper, he cursed the fact he’d let his ego and pride take it this far. Being this close to Lorelei allowed the scent of her perfume to fill his nose with each breath, sending sharp pangs through his belly. Even the soft skin of her arm where he held it seemed to sear his fingers. When her tongue snaked out to moisten her lips he could practically feel it moving over his skin instead.

The air around them felt charged and heavy, and time slowed to a standstill as he let his eyes wander down to her lips and then to the pink flush climbing out of her cleavage. He had so much more to throw at her, but the words seemed trapped in his chest under the desire to do something entirely different.

Lorelei closed her eyes and took a deep but unsteady breath. When her eyes met his again he saw regret there. “You know, the worst part of this isn’t what other people might think.”

He braced himself.

“What really kills me is that you remember it and I don’t.”

The words were out there before Lorelei could stop them, and Donovan’s sharp intake of breath had her regretting them instantly. The moment he’d touched her, though, every nerve in her body had cried out, wanting more of what her mind couldn’t quite remember but her skin obviously did.

And his words … Crude as they were, they had spoken to something inside her, awakening that same feeling of frustration she’d faced every morning this week. The achy need in her core, the shivers in her belly … She wanted to find the cause and the cure.

Donovan is both, her mind whispered.

Lorelei gritted her teeth. That wasn’t an option. The last thing she needed right now was to get involved with anybody. This was a time to focus on her professional life, not her personal life. Hell, it was probably that focus that had led her to Donovan’s bed in the first place; she hadn’t had the time for a social life—and hadn’t wanted the scrutiny, either—and celibacy must not sit well with her. If she gave in to that little whisper, it could torpedo everything.

She stepped back quickly, breaking the web of heat and electricity that had snared her and led to that embarrassing admission. The air felt cooler immediately, and rationality returned. At least until she looked at Donovan. His eyes were hot, his body tense. It awoke something primal in her that was almost impossible to ignore.

She swallowed hard. Once again she needed a dignified exit. “I’ve got to go.”

She didn’t wait for a response, and focused instead on looking casual and carefree as she left Donovan’s office. Donovan was right: coming here had just given that one sentence legs to stand on, so she forced herself to look unbothered. Normal.

She pasted a false smile on her face and kept her head up as she exited the building and crossed to the lot across the street where she’d parked. Once safely inside, with the doors locked and the AC running full-blast, the pride that had buoyed her out of there deflated.

Not only was she never drinking again, she was going to go online today and order herself a chastity belt. Maybe she should just drive straight to the convent and beg to be taken in for her own protection. There had to be something really disturbingly wrong in her brain for her to be in this position.

To be honest, one line in a newspaper was nothing. She’d had far more accurate and damaging reports printed about her before. Her mother’s garden club might be twittering about it—but, honestly, it would pass. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d downplayed something until it went away. No, she had to face the fact that she’d grabbed on to to the flimsiest of excuses to go and see Donovan and ended up having her worst suspicions confirmed.

It was one thing to have no shame; it was another thing entirely to realize she had no pride, either.

That’s not true. She did have her pride. The fact she’d gotten the information she wanted and was currently sitting in her car alone was proof she possessed a spine and self-control. Her dignity might be a little dented, but her pride was intact.

If feeling a little shaky.

In a way, she should be glad that Donovan was at the center of this debacle. It wasn’t as if their paths crossed often—they traveled in different circles—so she wouldn’t have to face him repeatedly, knowing the whole time that he was able to picture her … Ugh.

Time would work its magic, and probably by the time she saw him again this would be an even fuzzier memory—and hopefully she’d be past the chemical reaction he seemed to cause.

Her mom’s ringtone sounded again, and this time she answered. “I’m sorry I haven’t had the chance to call you back. I’ve had a busy morning.” That was true; panic had kept her quite busy.

“Where are you?”

“I’m on my way to Connor’s studio.” That wasn’t a lie, either; the St. James Media building was sort of on her way. “I’ve got some work to catch up on.”

“And are you going to tell me what that comment about you and Donovan St. James is about?”

Lorelei forced herself to laugh. It sounded fake and hollow to her ears, but her mother didn’t seem to notice. “There was an after-party and we were both there, but … me and Donovan St. James? That’s insane.”

That wasn’t a lie, either.




CHAPTER THREE


“BUT YOU SAID YOU’D stand in for Vivienne while she was on her honeymoon. They’re expecting you to be there.”

That was before I knew what I was getting myself into.

Standing in for Vivi had sounded like a good idea—it would give her a chance to show that her sister wasn’t the only one with saintly, service-oriented tendencies and get her out there as Connor’s representative—but she hadn’t had a full understanding of what Vivi’s life was really like when she’d hatched that plan. Oh, she knew in theory that Vivi was busy and involved in everything, but actually inheriting even part of that schedule had left her wondering how Vivi had time to do anything else. Like sleep. She sighed into the phone. “I know, Mom, but I think I’m getting a migraine.”

“You’ve never had a migraine in your life.”

I never had Donovan St. James turning up everywhere like a bad penny before, either.

She’d finally read the emails from Vivi about her schedule. After her shock at how dense that schedule actually was had passed, she’d nearly choked when her preparations for those events had informed her that Donovan was also all over that schedule. Somehow she’d missed the memo that outlined how he’d gotten neck-deep into the city’s business. No wonder Vivi and Connor had invited him to the wedding. If nothing else, it was professional courtesy.

“Well, it’s a killer headache, regardless.”

“Your father and I have tickets for the ballet with the Allisons. You’ll have to solider through. It will be a challenge, but—”

“LaBlancs love a challenge,” Lorelei finished for her. “I know.”

“You’ll do fine, darling. Even with a headache.”

Her mom’s words brought a smile to her face even in her misery. Finally she was getting somewhere.

“Just be friendly and gracious. Stick to club soda and remember to think before you speak.”

And there was the dig. Lord, it was hard to live down a reputation.

Eventually, though, she’d live it down. Even if it killed her in the process.

Her mother hung up and Lorelei leaned her head back against the couch. In reality she was pretty much ready to go—and early, at that—but panic had set in, causing her to call her mom for a way out of this mess.

The headache, while not as debilitating as she’d claimed, was real—and it was named Donovan. She thought longingly of the bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge as a solution. But even if she hadn’t sworn off drinking, hadn’t she already proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that she, Donovan and alcohol were a bad, bad mix?

Of course she probably shouldn’t worry about Donovan’s part in that cocktail. Her personal humiliation was bad enough, but Donovan had to be wondering who’d given her a day pass from the asylum. Just the thought of facing him again … And so soon after the last debacle …

Suck it up, kiddo. The third time had to be a charm. She was a LaBlanc, for God’s sake; she needed to start acting like one. If she had to channel Vivi, or her mother, or even the Queen of England to get through this with poise and class, she would.

She knew what she had to do; she knew she could do it. Her plan was solid—even if the execution wasn’t a sure thing.

Her dress hung on the closet door: a deep blue to match her eyes, with a modest but not matronly neckline, and a hem that hit just above the knee. It was age-appropriate—youthful without being trashy—and stylish without falling into the “trendy” trap.

It was also Vivi’s. But she’d told herself that if she was going to do Vivi’s job she needed Vivi’s wardrobe. Right now it looked like a suit of armor, ready to protect her from herself.

Yes, the dress was completely appropriate, and Lorelei suddenly hated it. She might need to channel her sister, her mother and the freakin’ queen to do this right, but she wasn’t going to betray herself, either. She was letting Donovan have way too much control of her mind, letting him shake her already shaky confidence in herself.

She wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t that much of a screw-up. She had the manners and the experience to get through this, but if she tried too hard to be something—or someone—she wasn’t, everyone would know she was faking it.

And she didn’t want to fake it. She didn’t need to fake it. She could do so much more than anyone assumed; she just needed the chance to show them that. She wanted to be accepted on her own terms and for her own merits—not just because she was a LaBlanc. She had an uphill climb, though. She’d broken or flaunted every rule and edict ever laid down, and the old guard was not exactly forgiving. She couldn’t just reclaim her birthright—she was going to have to earn it back.

But she could. She just needed to find that happy medium.

And it started with a different dress.

Donovan had never quite outgrown the sick kick he got out of attending events like this.

As much as they might try to deny it publicly, New Orleans society was an old, established hierarchy, and it galled many members of that hierarchy to open its ranks even the tiniest bit. But Old Money wasn’t quite what it had used to be so, like it or not, those ranks had had to make exceptions. Even for a family like his that many still considered to be only a step above carpetbaggers. Oh, they had to respect his money, and his money bought influence—even if they didn’t like it one little bit.

The truth was—and it had taken him a while to figure it out—that the Old Guard were scared of that influence, scared they were losing their monopoly to upstarts and the trashy nouveau riche. If anything, they were closing the ranks even tighter and drawing very clear lines in the sand.

For him, though, it was more than just his New Money and lower-class roots that they disliked. With him, it was personal. He’d brought down some of their own. He was a social pariah—but not one who could be ignored. And they didn’t like that at all.

He’d admit he still got a bit of immature glee sometimes over the situation, but the reality was that he really did support the mission of the Children’s Music Project and was more than happy to sit on the board. “Nouveau riche” might not be a title he’d shake anytime soon, but he and his nouveau riche friends were the prime check-writers these days. Times really were tough all around—especially for those who’d lost a bundle in the market crash. Genteel poverty in the upper classes was a New Orleans tradition that dated back to Reconstruction—which only underscored the fact that the right DNA was more important than a healthy bank balance, and the lack of that DNA would forever keep certain doors locked tight.

He went to the bar to refill his drink as the CMP’s executive director took to the small stage that normally contained the house band. There were general thanks, a rundown of the year’s successes, plans for the future …

Jack Morgan, a partner in the law firm that represented St. James Media and an occasional racketball partner when no one else was available, joined him at the bar and signaled for a refill, as well. “How long do you think the speeches will last?”

“Why? Got a hot date?”

“Would that get me out of here?” Jack slid a bill across the bar and then rested against it with a sigh.

“Make a run for it. No one will notice you’re gone.”

“My mother will.”

Donovan snorted. Mrs. Morgan was a true dragon of the old order. “Sucks to be you.”

“Tonight it does.”

“… Lorelei LaBlanc,” the director announced.

That got his attention, snapping his head toward the stage so fast his neck cramped. His first thought—What the hell is Lorelei doing here?—was rebutted by remembering the remark she’d made Wednesday about stepping in for Vivi and Connor while they were on their honeymoon. Still … he’d seen her more in the last week than he had in the last five years.

Then Lorelei emerged from the crowd to climb the steps to the stage, and he nearly dropped the drink he held in his hand.

Wrapped in a curve-hugging deep purple dress, she looked like a princess addressing the motley masses. Lorelei was the epitome of elegance, style and class, a product of extremely good breeding. She wore it easily, confidently. That black hair curled around creamy shoulders and tendrils snaked over her breast like a caress. Want streaked through him like a flash, and the low whistle he heard from beside him proved he wasn’t the only one feeling it.

“Damn,” Jack muttered. “Little sis grew up nicely.”

He considered Jack more of an acquaintance than a friend, so it was tough to allow him to keep his teeth as the compliments continued.

Lorelei’s smile was blinding as she took the microphone from the director. “Vivienne hasn’t missed one of these events in years, and she didn’t want to miss this one, either, but she hopes you’ll forgive her since it’s her honeymoon.” Lorelei paused as polite applause moved through the crowd. “And before you ask … yes, I do know where they are. But, no, I won’t tell you where they went. You’ll just have trust me when I tell you it’s fabulous and they’re having a wonderful time.”

A laugh rippled through the crowd. He had to admit Lorelei knew how to command a crowd’s attention.

“I’m not just here tonight on behalf of my sister. I’m here for Connor and ConMan Studios, as well.”

At the mention of Connor’s name the low rumble of conversation in the crowd died instantly.

“As you can imagine, music and music education is a cause very close to Connor’s heart. CMP has focused, by necessity, on in-school programs for younger children …”

Lorelei looked comfortable up there, and if public speaking was one of her fears it certainly didn’t show in her speech or body language. She had that same presence that Donovan had seen in her sister—that confidence that could only come from the security of knowing exactly who she was. Unlike her sister, though, Lorelei had a low, hypnotic timbre in her voice that sounded like pure sex to him.

It did bad things to his equilibrium.

“It’s my great privilege to announce tonight that ConMan Studios is partnering with the CMP to expand its summer programs for the area’s youth by providing not only funding, but space and access to some of the city’s best musical talent.” She paused for the applause, and then said with a laugh, “We have big plans in the works, so rest assured you’ll all be hearing from me very soon. And often.”

There was shock that Lorelei was going to be so involved with whatever plans Connor had cooked up with Vivi for his project, but it didn’t cancel out the slice of desire that cut him at the sound of that husky laugh.





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