Date with a Diva. Joanne Rock

      Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered she had no business thinking about sex with this man. Scavenging up some righteous indignation—a far safer response—she sent him a level look.

      “Are you telling me I’m hosting a porno flick on a four-star property?” Because no matter how much of a sex goddess this Rosaria person might be, Lainie would scream breach of contract so fast it would give those film executives whiplash if they tarnished the upscale image of her resort.

      “Of course not. And some insiders are claiming that hiring her was all a publicity stunt anyway.” He slowed his step as they reached Club Paradise, their long trek down South Beach finally at an end. “But obviously the producers want to get across a high steam level with this film.”

      “Okay, Roger Ebert. Care to tell me how you know all this about a movie that hasn’t even been made yet?” Relieved to be back on familiar terrain, she stepped closer to the cover of a decorative palm tree near the Ocean Drive entrance of the resort.

      Pride filled her to see the number of cars coming and going past the front doors, especially for a Monday. The Moulin Rouge Lounge was closed tonight, but the block still buzzed with activity.

      “Giselle must have had a copy of People magazine lying around somewhere. During the hockey off-season, I tend to kick back a little bit. Read for entertainment.” He withdrew his hand from his pocket to wrap it about her wrist, drawing her around the corner of the stucco building to the side of the Mediterranean-inspired hotel. His touch melted right through her skin, the warmth of his palm doing delicious things to her insides.

      Lainie could hardly object to the move since she thought all along they shouldn’t be seen together. Too complicated. “Well, regardless of where you found out all this, I appreciate you sharing it with me.”

      “No problem. But now I’ll admit you’ve got me curious.” He loomed closer suddenly, although Lainie hadn’t seen him take any actual steps toward her. “You think you can handle all that steam under your roof day after day?”

      He was so close she could feel the heat rise off his body. Memories of being pressed up against him sent waves of delicious awareness skating over her skin. She took a breath, steeling herself to give him the brush-off she desperately needed to impart.

      “Anyone ever tell you that you have a hell of a lot of nerve?” She congratulated herself that at least it hadn’t come out of her mouth as a breathy rasp.

      Take that, hormones.

      “Nerve is an essential component of being a good goalie. I can’t afford to let anything get past me, even if that means throwing myself in the path of speeding objects.” He didn’t touch her, but she thought she caught a hint of the bourbon on his breath.

      Would he taste like that strong brew, or would his mouth be more reminiscent of chocolate ice cream? Neither possibility scared her off. If anything, her own mouth watered.

      “I’m not a speeding object.” She’d meant to deliver the words with a bit more disdain. Instead, she spoke by rote with no feeling behind the sentiment, like a woman in the throes of a sensual trance.

      “Nevertheless, I’m not going to let you slide on by.” His mouth descended to hers while she stood paralyzed by her own surprise.

      Her own want.

      But as his lips coaxed hers apart, the slick heat of his tongue sliding inside her mouth chased away the dazed sensation. Her hands gravitated to his chest, tracing over the wall of muscle she’d been longing to feel for hours. He cradled her chin in his palm, tilting her head to the angle that pleased him most, and by doing so, pleasing her to no end.

      The lure of that kiss made her lean into him, her breasts already aching for contact. Her purse shifted on her shoulder, her linen jacket bunching up where she’d laid it across the leather bag.

      The wrinkles, the discomfort of her heavy purse, none of it mattered. She only cared about that sizzling point of contact where their tongues tangled and their tastes blended.

      Definitely chocolate ice cream. The sweetness of Nico Cesare’s kiss belied all his nervy words and his earlier bold assumption that she wanted to crawl into bed with him. For this moment at least, his arrogance took a back seat to the skillful lash of his tongue and the delicate way he wove one hand through her hair, sifting the strands between his fingers while he kissed her as if he had all the time in the world.

      She could have gone on forever, having long forgotten what made her want to protest this decadent mating of the mouths. But at that moment, a chorus of shrill screams went up in front of the hotel.

      “It’s Bram Hawthorne!”

      More shrieks. Feet pounded the pavement all around them as if a stampede of buffalo in high heels had come gunning for Club Paradise.

      Lainie and Nico broke apart, breathing heavy, clothes askew. She saw her own confused desire mirrored in his dark gaze for a fraction of a second before a herd of spandex-clad females buzzed past them at hyperspeed.

      “Please don’t let this be happening.” Lainie hadn’t expected the movie talent for another week or she never would have left the resort today. “Did they really just say what I think they said?”

      The screams continued at a deafening pitch out front. No wonder it felt as if eyes were trained this way. Apparently they had been—just not on her. And it would only get worse once shooting began.

      Nico stepped back a few feet, just far enough to give him a visual on the front entrance.

      “Well?” Lainie tucked her shirt more firmly into her skirt and slipped into her jacket, her pulse still dancing a hip-hop beat through her veins.

      Nico lifted a lone strand of mussed hair out of her eyes, his touch so gentle it gave her the same weak-kneed feeling as the bourbon, only better.

      “I’d say either that kiss has me seeing stars or else your lead actor has arrived.”