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 as she admitted her inexperience. He never would have guessed she was a rookie. His fascination with her jumped a notch. “But this is just a temporary job. Until my boss gets back from his honeymoon.” She paused, biting her bottom lip before admitting, “I’m a protection specialist with No Chances Protection.” Her claim grew louder as she spoke, as if she was trying the label on for size.
“Protection specialist?” he asked.
“A bodyguard.”
After his brush with the screaming crowd, Nick couldn’t begrudge his savior her choice of occupation. In fact, he was having a damn hard time begrudging anything at the moment. Just walking behind her, watching the alluring swing of her hips, catching the light in those impressive blue eyes whenever she looked over her shoulder, did amazing things to his outlook. His cousin and assistant, Anita, had started calling him the ogre at least ten times a day. Right now, he felt like the prince who slew the ogre…all for the sake of a sexy blond princess.
And he didn’t appreciate the feeling one iota.
Everything about Miss Deveaux should have gone against his grain. She was tough. She spoke her mind. She took control and did what had to be done without regrets.
A fine combination for a lover, ordinarily, but a horrible mix when he couldn’t afford to extend an invitation to his bed unless it was attached to a marriage proposal. And though Miss Deveaux stirred his blood like a chef with a swift wooden spoon, this woman’s medley of sassy confidence was the last thing he wanted to deal with for a lifetime.
Nick knew his preferences for a bride—sweet, submissive, maybe a little shy—were about a century behind the times, but he’d yet to meet someone who inspired him to change.
And though he was the last heterosexual man on earth who wanted to get married, he couldn’t deny that very, very soon, he’d have little to no choice.
When his grandmothers decided last year that they wouldn’t retire and turn the company completely over to him until he settled down and started a family, he should have popped the question to the nearest single adult female and been done with it. Instead, he’d dug in his heels and refused to let them dictate his private life.
Only, his private life consisted of endless family obligations—weddings, baptisms, birthdays—an occasional jog down Lake Shore and, perhaps, a night out with his CFO and vice president of retail sales so they could discuss business under the guise of relaxation.
Their latest discussion was the conundrum his grandmothers had created with their declaration. If Rose and Fae died before he married, LaRocca Foods would be sold in pieces to various family members. The conglomerate he’d worked so hard to build would cease to exist. All the market power he’d amassed since he joined the company just out of college would be lost.
The LaRoccas and Durantes had never been wealthy before. Until he took over the business, they had struggled through two generations of barely making ends meet, of not sending children to college if they couldn’t win scholarships, of doubling up on living arrangements to make sure every mouth was fed. But when the family’s restaurant fell on hard times and his grandmothers started supplementing the family income by selling their pasta sauce from behind the register, it had been Nick’s idea to build a display case for the West Monroe Street entrance. He’d been the one to organize and offer mail order to tourists and, after completing his course of study at the University of Illinois, he’d personally pounded the pavement to introduce their products to grocery stores. And just seven years ago, he’d spearheaded the promotion campaign that pushed their private stock into the public marketplace for a premium price.
And all without putting his own picture on a single label.
Nick