Sleeping With Her Rival. Sheri WhiteFeather

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      One

      Gina Barone wasn’t in the mood to party, but she sipped a glass of chardonnay—praying it wouldn’t irritate her stomach—and worked her way through the charity mixer, feigning an I’m-in-control smile.

      She knew it was important to be seen, to hold her head high, especially now. Gina was the vice president of marketing and public relations for Baronessa Gelati, a family-owned Italian ice cream empire—a company being shredded by the media.

      Something Gina felt responsible for.

      Moving through the crowd, she nodded to familiar faces. Although she’d come here to make her presence known, she thought it best to avoid lengthy conversations. A polite greeting was about all she could handle. And with that in mind, she would sample the food, sip a tiny bit of wine and then wait until an appropriate amount of time passed before she said her goodbyes and made a gracious exit.

      “Gina?”

      She stopped to acknowledge Morgan Chancellor, a business associate who flitted around the social scene like a butterfly, fluttering from one partygoer to the next.

      “Oh, hello. You look lovely, Morgan. That’s a beautiful dress.”

      “Why, thank you.” The other woman batted her lashes, then leaned in close. “Do you know who asked about you?”

      Gina suspected plenty of people were talking about her, about the fiasco she’d arranged last month, the Valentine’s Day publicity event that had ended in disaster.

      Baronessa had been launching a new flavor called passionfruit, offering a free tasting at their corporate headquarters. But pandemonium erupted when people tasted the gelato.

      An unknown culprit had spiked the ice cream with a mouth-burning substance, which they’d soon discovered was habanero peppers—the hottest chilies in the world.

      And worse yet, a friend of Gina’s who’d stopped by the event at her invitation had suffered from an attack of anaphylaxis, a serious and rapid allergic reaction to the peppers.

      She’d nearly killed someone. Inadvertently, maybe, but the shame and the guilt were still hers to bear.

      Gina gazed at Morgan, forcing herself to smile. “So, who asked about me?”

      “Flint Kingman.”

      Her smile cracked and fell. “He’s here?”

      “Yes. He asked me to point you out.”

      “Did he?” Gina glanced around the room. The crème de la crème of Boston society mingled freely, but somewhere, lurking amid black cocktail dresses and designer suits, was her newly acquired rival.

      Anxious, she fingered the diamond-and-pearl choker around her neck, wishing she hadn’t worn it. Flint’s reputation strangled her like a noose.

      The wonder boy. The renowned spin doctor. The prince of the PR world.

      Her family expected her to work with him, to take his advice. Why couldn’t they allow her the dignity of repairing the media damage on her own? Why did they have to force Flint Kingman on her?

      He’d left a slew of messages at the office, insisting she return his calls. So finally she’d summoned the strength to do just that. But their professional conversation had turned heated, and she’d told him to go to hell.

      And now he was here.

      “Would you mind pointing him out to me?” she asked Morgan.

      “Certainly.” The redhead turned to glance over her shoulder, then frowned. “He was over there, with that group of men, but he’s gone now.”

      Gina shrugged, hoping to appear calm and refined—a far cry from the turmoil churning inside.

      “I’m sure he’ll catch up with me later,” she said, wondering if he’d attended this party just to intimidate her.

      If he didn’t crawl out of the woodwork and introduce himself, then he would probably continue to spy on her from afar, making her ulcer act up. It was a nervous condition she hid from her family.

      “If you’ll excuse me, Morgan, I’m going to check out the buffet.”

      “Go right ahead. If I see Flint, I’ll let you know.”

      “Thanks.” Gina headed to the buffet table to indulge in hors d’oeuvres, to nibble daintily on party foods, to pretend that she felt secure enough to eat in public. No way would she let Flint run her off, even if she wanted to dart out the door.

      As she studied the festive spread, her stomach tightened. This wasn’t the bland diet her doctor recommended, but what choice did she have?

      The shrimp dumplings would probably hit her digestive system like lead balls, but she placed them on her plate next to a scatter of crab-stuffed mushrooms and a small helping of artichoke dip.

      Balancing her food and a full glass of wine, she searched for a sheltered spot. The posh hotel banquet room had been decorated for a cocktail gathering with a small grouping of tables and lots of standing room.

      Gina snuggled up to a floor-to-ceiling window, set her drink on a nearby planter ledge and turned to gaze at the city. Rain fell from the sky, and lights twinkled like pinwheels, casting sparks in the brisk March air.

      She stood, with her plate in hand, admiring the rain-dampened view. And then she heard a man speak her name.

      The low, vodka-on-the-rocks voice crept up her spine and sent her heartbeat racing. She recognized Flint Kingman’s tone instantly.

      Preparing to face him, she turned.

      He gazed directly into her eyes, and she did her damnedest to maintain her composure.

      She’d expected tall and handsome, but he was more than that. So much more.

      In an Armani suit and Gucci loafers, he stood perfectly groomed, as cocky and debonair as his reputation. Yet beneath the Boston polish was an edge as hard as his name, as sharp and dangerous as the tip of a flint.

      He exuded sexuality. Pure, raw, primal heat.

      She steadied her plate with both hands to keep her food from spilling onto the floor. Men didn’t make her nervous. But this one did.

      He didn’t speak; he just watched her through a pair of amber-flecked eyes.

      “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?” she said, her posture stiff, her fingers suddenly numb.

      A cynical smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and a strand of chocolate-brown hair fell rebelliously across his forehead.

      “Nice try. But you know exactly who I am.”

      “Oh, forgive me. You must be that Bowie guy.”

      He smoothed his hair into place, his mouth still set in a sardonic curl. “Flint. Bowie is a different kind of knife.”

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