Date with a Diva

“Fine.” She thrust out her hand to seal the deal. “I appreciate the help until I can make other arrangements tomorrow.”

He enveloped her palm in his, his touch too gentle and too deliberate to qualify as a handshake. She shivered with awareness and hoped he didn’t notice.

He smiled, that arrogant grin of his telling her he didn’t miss a thing. “Agreed.”

Extricating herself from that tempting touch, Lainie willed herself to cool down as she walked away. But when a male chuckle echoed in her ears, she had the feeling it didn’t matter how much distance she put between her and the kitchen.

Things were already beginning to heat up.

“THIS MOVIE’S ALL ABOUT SEX, steam and sizzle,” Hollywood A-lister Bram Hawthorne declared around a mouthful of scrambled eggs the next morning as he sat across the table from Nico in the back of the Club Paradise kitchen. “I don’t know if it will have any kind of critical success, but I think moviegoers are going to love it.”

Nico wolfed down his own plate of food in the lull between the insane breakfast hours and the upcoming lunch crowd. He’d cooked his butt off all morning—everything from dry wheat and basic eggs over easy to complicated omelets and breakfast soufflé. Thankfully, a local vendor had been delivering plenty of pastries ever since Giselle left, so he’d avoided that headache. But still, Nico had never worked so hard in his life. Even a full day of practice defending rapid-fire, one-on-one breakaway shots had been a walk in the park compared to cooking for two hundred guests.

And when it was all over, Bram Hawthorne’s manager had come sneaking in the back door with the movie’s most bankable talent so the star could eat his breakfast in peace. Nico might have been more star-struck if he hadn’t been so exhausted.

The discussion of sex and steam caught his attention, however. Especially since his cooking had been impaired by thoughts of sex and steam with Lainie Reynolds.

“From what I’ve heard about the movie, it sounds like it’s got story to spare, too. Critics seem more tolerant of sex and sizzle if there’s some substance to back it up.” Nico had been a closet movie buff since forever. The cinema had been the only place for real escape after he’d lost his mom as a kid, and then his dad as a teenager. Something about a darkened theater gave you the illusion of being able to walk away from your own hurts and step straight into the fantasy world on screen.

Come to think of it, maybe that was part of his obsession with Lainie. She was a fantasy. A tough-as-nails businesswoman who posed an enticing challenge but would never be interested in the long haul. And after his experience with Ashley, that sounded just right to him.

“That’d be a nice bonus.” Bram grinned and a hint of his Mississippi accent drawled through his words. He couldn’t be any older than twenty-five, but he’d been a Hollywood phenomenon since a walk-on appearance as a flamboyant waiter in a Harrison Ford flick. “But I’ve found out firsthand that what the critics say don’t figure into your paycheck. Actors get paid for how many seats they fill at the theater—end of story.”

Nico nodded, a little surprised at the Machiavellian thinking in a twenty-five-year-old, but who was he to judge? Bram seemed nice enough. He had the Joe Movie Star grin going with fifty-thousand megawhite teeth, but he was lucky if he hit six feet in boots. Spiky brown hair and gray eyes made up for a lot with women, apparently. But the guy had to be pretty damn down-to-earth to break bread in the kitchen with a sweaty athlete posing as a cook.

“More coffee?” Yet another waitress appeared to fill their cups, the third new face at their table since they’d sat down.

This one was blond and blue-eyed and way too innocent looking. She was the antithesis of Lainie Reynolds in every way but the hair color. Where Lainie was sleek and sophisticated, this woman nearly bubbled over with energy and too much enthusiasm.

Or maybe that was only when she waved a coffeepot under a superstar’s nose.

“None for me, thanks.” Bram had been polite to all the waitresses, doling out grins every time he’d been interrupted.

Nico could think of too many hockey stars who couldn’t be bothered to be nice to anyone in the food-service industry unless they were out to…get laid.

His gaze tracked back to Bram. Had the guy been lining up after-hours entertainment all this time?

“Then is there anything else I can get for you?” The fluffy-haired waitress leaned forward, her bountiful breasts now prominently displayed.

Shoving his last bite of eggs in his mouth, Nico knew when he was being a third wheel. He scraped his chair backward across the ceramic tiles when a sharp feminine voice pierced the din of kitchen sounds.

“Excuse me, miss, may I ask what you think you’re doing in my hotel?” Lainie cruised to a stop beside the table, belatedly taking in her famous guest’s presence. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re no longer employed here.”

Nico noticed her already perfect posture straighten by a few more taut degrees. If he hadn’t seen her barefoot and sipping homemade Kentucky brew with his own eyes yesterday, he never would have thought her capable of loosening up an inch. She wore a navy suit with some sort of black-lace camisole thing underneath and a strand of fat pearls around her neck. He squinted hard to get a better view of the black-lace thing, but with her jacket buttoned, he could only make out about two square inches. Just enough to make him undress her shamelessly with his eyes while she spoke to the red-faced waitress.

“My girlfriend who works in the coffee shop has a room here this week,” the younger woman shot back. “We’re trying out as extras for the movie.” She hooked her thumb in the pocket of her jeans and cast a sly smile in Bram’s direction. “I’m Daisy Stephenson, by the way.”

“But what are you doing here, in the kitchen, which you know perfectly well is an employees-only area?” Lainie arched her eyebrow, her gaze never wavering from the waitress who perhaps wasn’t a waitress, after all. In fact, she didn’t even have a uniform on, just a coffeepot in her hand.

Bram cleared his throat. “Sorry to have descended on you like this, ma’am.” He reached into his wallet and laid way too much money on the table for the eggs Nico had made him. “It’s my fault for bringing outsiders into the kitchen, but I had my manager check with your chef and he seemed to think it would be okay.”

Nico couldn’t believe the guy was throwing him in the fire on this one. He didn’t remember okaying the presence of a pseudowaitress. But before he could say yea or nay on the cock-and-bull story, Lainie was already relenting.

“Of course it’s not a problem, Mr. Hawthorne.” She doled out a very pleasant expression to smooth things over, but Nico noted she still didn’t smile. Not really. Her stretching of the lips was Mona Lisa-esque at best. “I hear you’re starting filming already today, so we’ll just be out of your way.” She stepped away from the table, presumably to give Nico room to rise and join her. “Don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your visit more comfortable.”

Nico didn’t rise just yet, watching the Hollywood superstud across the table for any signs of hitting on Lainie. There’d damn well be arsenic in the eggs tomorrow if his eyes roamed anywhere near that black-lace job she wore.

Lucky for him, Bram nodded with squeaky-clean good manners. “Will do. I appreciate that, ma’am.”

Smart kid.

Nico rose to his feet, balancing every last dish on his forearms as he made his way over to the sterilizing sinks. He was in the process of turning over the plates to the dishwasher when he realized the click-click of Lainie’s high heels hadn’t followed him.

Jealousy niggled as he envisioned Mr. Hollywood Charm laying it on thick behind Nico’s back. His jaw flexed, hands clenched in anticipation.

Yet when he turned, he spied Lainie in heated conversation—not with Joe Movie Star, but with the wanna-be movie extra.

IF HIS TIME HAD BEEN HIS OWN, Bram Hawthorne could have spent another hour in the Club Paradise kitchen shooting the breeze with hockey legend Nico Cesare and making eyes at the stacked waitress with sweet blue eyes. Bram hadn’t enjoyed such a normal, peaceful meal since he’d started work on Diva’s Last Dance two months ago. There were plenty of advantages to being the Hollywood star on the rise, but eating a meal in peace wasn’t one of them.

He looked back into the kitchen one more time before he plowed through the swinging doors to seek out his new shooting location. The blond waitress with the sex-goddess body—Daisy—looked as if she was being chewed out by the hotel manager or owner or whoever this Lainie Reynolds person was supposed to be. The woman in the high-class suit must have been a studio executive in another life.

Damn, but he should have just corralled the flirty blonde under his arm and taken her to the filming with him so he could have spared her an ass chewing.

The thought inevitably pulled his eyes southward to check out the ass in question. So fine. Tight and succulent and so much better than Hollywood female butts, which fell into two categories—anemic or iron-clad.

He’d stake his considerable paycheck that her breasts were the real deal, too. He’d seen enough silicone up close and personal to be able to appreciate the soft sway of God-given twins.

Yes, ma’am, he would make time for Daisy in his future.

But right now he had a scene to shoot. Allowing the swinging door to fall shut on the scene in the kitchen, he checked his watch and then sprinted up a set of emergency stairs, which were always less populated than the elevator. He’d promised his all-business costar that he’d be on the set early to run through their actions and get a feel for the environment.

For all her sex-queen reputation, Rosaria Graham was as hard-nosed and driven as they came. Silicone from head to toe, the woman probably had a synthetic heart, too. The only time she mustered up any warmth of personality was when the director or one of the studio reps happened by the set.

As for warming up to her fellow actors—forget it. Taking the stairs two at a time, Bram acknowledged Rosaria’s only form of interaction with him so far had been to critique his performance and tell him what he should be doing differently. Not that she gave a rat’s butt about seeing him succeed. She just figured that the better he acted, the bigger their box-office sales would be and the more parts she’d be offered.

Little did Rosaria know Bram had his own reasons for making every performance the best he could. Reasons that went a hell of a lot deeper than earning enough cash to finance more silicone and a new Rolls. Shoving aside thoughts of his sister and the unidentified disease she battled every day while he climbed the ladder to stardom, Bram vowed this movie wouldn’t be any different. He’d cash in with Diva’s Last Dance even if Rosaria was proving to be a first-class snot.

Reaching the floor where they’d be shooting today’s scene, Bram plowed through the heavy steel door with both arms, winging the weighted barrier so hard it creaked on its hinges. And nearly slamming into a big, beefy guy covered in tattoos who looked downright pissed at the close encounter.

Until the scowling man recognized him. Bram signed an autograph while the towering brute showed off his favorite body art—a toss-up between the mermaid on his right shoulder and the surfboard on his left. Bram smiled and nodded and hurried away, reminding himself to focus on his upcoming performance.

And thankfully, Daisy the waitress was going to be the new key to his motivation for his upcoming love scenes. All he’d have to do was envision Daisy in Rosaria’s place and he’d be golden.

In fact, now that he thought about it, he had a good idea how he could be even more inspired. Nearing the Fun & Games Chamber, Bram tugged out his cell phone and put in a call to one of the film’s gofers to request the best motivation of all.

He might not be able to act out this scene with the woman he’d been thinking about, but he sure as hell could arrange to have her there. Close enough to see. Close enough to fantasize about.

Whipping off a few instructions, Bram congratulated himself for his quick thinking. With the flirtatious Daisy standing by, he knew he’d be turning in one hell of a love scene because the secret of his success was that he possessed great imagination.

He just hoped he wouldn’t have to imagine what Daisy tasted like for long. Sooner or later, he wanted the real deal all for himself.

THE URGE TO PULL A HANK of Daisy Stephenson’s bottle-blonde shag cut rode Lainie so hard she thought it best to fist her hands behind her back.

“I don’t care that Bram Hawthorne is allowed to enter the kitchen. You are not.” Lainie had fired Daisy from her position as a cigarette girl in the resort’s nightclub nine months ago after the woman had continually thrown herself at Brianne’s boyfriend-turned-fiancé. Bad enough Daisy had foisted her attentions on an FBI agent who’d been investigating the club at the time, but she’d also frequently left her workstation to pursue her hormonal needs.

Lainie had no intention of letting the woman weasel her way into the resort to wreak havoc again. Especially not when Lainie’s best PR chance of all time loomed within her reach.

Daisy fluffed her hair at her shoulder as she pursed bubblegum-colored lips. “You may have to rescind that dictate if I’m on the list of things Bram requests to make him more comfortable.” She hitched up the narrow strap of her tank top, dragging her twenty-pound breasts upward with the motion.

Tart.

Lainie knew worse words to describe Daisy, but she didn’t dare think them for fear they’d trip out of her lips. “Just as long as he doesn’t request your presence in any employees-only areas, I’m sure you made it patently obvious he can have you anywhere he wants you.”

Turning on her heel before she allowed Daisy to tick her off any further, Lainie nearly crashed right into Nico.

“Morning.” He looked too damn good for a man who’d fielded a record number of room-service orders, according to her kitchen sources. A big white chef’s apron covered part of his black slacks and a gray polo shirt. He smelled like the antibacterial soap the kitchen stocked by the gallon. Casting a sideways glance at Daisy as the woman blasted through the swinging doors and out of the kitchen, he raised an eyebrow. “I take it she’s not a friend of yours.”

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