Date with a Diva. Joanne Rock

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СКАЧАТЬ 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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