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,