Wicked Heat. Kelli Ireland

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      The stranger grinned back. “Penny for your—”

      “Not even for a hundred thousand pennies, but thanks.” She barely managed to stifle a sigh. Of course, he had a British accent. Her personal kryptonite.

      Ella smoothed her hair, fighting the urge to fan her face. “You know, if you told me this was your first lap dance, I’d have said you were doing pretty well...right up until you broke that no-touch rule.”

      “My first? Ha.” He pushed a lock of errant hair back into place. “You’re perfectly aware that this is precisely how these things go. I impress you with my moves on the first dance. The first is always gratis, by the way. Then you’re enticed to pay for the second dance, wherein I employ my signature moves and render you speechless. And trust me, my lady,” he all but purred, “I’m highly skilled at keeping things professional. Everything is part of a job, even pleasure.”

      She chuffed out a laugh, gathering her own things. “Signature moves. You think pretty highly of yourself, Oxford.” Man, he smelled good—cologne that smelled like windblown shores laid over the warm wool of his suit and heat from his skin that carried the essence of him. Drawing a deep breath, she briefly closed her eyes before glancing up to meet his gaze. “I would imagine you’ve had ample opportunities to perfect those moves. Particularly the keep-it-professional routine.”

      He tilted his chin down and leaned forward, closing the distance between them. “Pay up and find out,” he said in a soft but unquestionably suggestive tone. “For your convenience, I take all major credit cards—even Diner’s Club. Cash as well. Lady’s preference.”

      Her mouth twitched, and she blinked with slow suggestiveness. “I save my bills for tipping.”

      “Lucky me,” he murmured.

      From the front of the plane, the pilot cleared his throat, clearly fighting laughter.

      Ella shot the stranger a sly look. “It seems we’re causing a scene.”

      “This is hardly a scene.”

      “No? You’re an expert, then?”

      He leaned close enough that, this time, it was his lips a whisper from her ear. “A bona fide professional.”

      A moment of sheer hysteria ensued. What if this guy actually was a gigolo? Wouldn’t that be the icing on the wedding cake she had yet to design.

      Patting the man’s outer thigh in dismissal, she shook her head. “Unfortunately, I’m scene averse. Time to go.”

      “Pity, that.” He gave a short nod toward the small messenger bag in the overhead bin. “Yours?”

      “Yep.” She straightened her skirt and moved to stand only to find he’d retrieved the bag and held it for her.

      He looked at her then, no pretense. No artifice. No sexy banter. It was that look, hunter to hunted. “I’ll see you to the bottom of the stairs. It is, after all, the least I can do.”

      “Thanks,” she managed, the sheer sexual pull of his person making her fight the urge to rub her thighs together. Nothing like starting the most critical job she’d ever had by engaging in seriously unprofessional behavior with a gorgeous man.

      And she was here for a job. No, not a job. The job—the one that would revive a career that had been on life support ever since her business partner, Rob Darlain, had bailed on her.

      Rob had taken their pitch for a TV show to a local cable network. They’d offered him the gig, which catapulted him to regional fame. Then the national network had come calling. Ella had been left to plan children’s birthday parties and bar mitzvahs instead of the exclusive, high-end events for which she and Rob had become recognized. And it didn’t help that he’d claimed to be the exclusive coordinator/designer while labeling Ella the help. The contract she had in her bag was her shot to not only prove her ex-partner wrong but to really, truly make a comeback. This event would park her business, her name, at the top of the list of event planners favored by society’s upper echelon.

      Ella preceded the stranger to the exit, hunched over due to the low ceiling made lower by her heels’ height. Every woman had a list of things she refused to cut corners on, from the brand of her coffee to the skin care line she used to the gym membership she ate noodles to afford. For Ella, her shoes were near the very top of that list. The heels she’d worn today had been a careful choice. They were her only pair of Louboutins, and she’d saved for months to buy them when times had been good. They were her power shoes, her I-can-do-anything-I-set-my-mind-to shoes. They were ass-kicking, name-taking shoes. She saw them as her personal totem, her symbol of power and control. Some might find her foolish. But those people didn’t fuel the voice in her head, the voice that demanded she be the best at what she did.

      Ella sighed.

      If she could pull this job off... No. When she pulled this job off, it would mean no more choosing between groceries or gas, electricity or water.

      With the Los Angeles elite being what they were, the culture being what it was, she’d been required to sign a confidentiality clause. She wouldn’t even know who the bride and groom were until the day before the rehearsal. So instead of dealing with the bride, Ella had agreed to work with the bride’s personally appointed representative. She, or he, would have the final say in approving the plans and could, per contractual agreement, make suggestions and changes as she saw fit. If Ella hadn’t been desperate to relaunch her career, and if she wasn’t sick and tired of eating noodle packs to survive, she’d have balked at that stipulation. But she needed this. More than the bride needed an “unrecognized” event planner no one would suspect had been hired to coordinate the wedding of the year.

      Whatever. It would work.

      It had to.

      Ella was prepared to realign the heavens if it meant making this wedding go off without a hitch. She’d worked too hard and for too long to settle for anything less. If she failed?

      “Not going to happen,” she said to herself.

      The resort’s shuttle pulled up near the plane. Stepping around several chickens that had wandered back onto the tarmac, she hoisted her messenger bag onto her shoulder, extended her suitcase handle and headed toward the vehicle.

      She had seven days to pull off the social event of the year—the event that would put money in her account, restore her professional reputation and maybe, just maybe, give her back the most valuable thing she’d lost over the last couple of years.

      Self-respect.

      * * *

      Liam Baggett made his way from the plane much slower than the woman he’d crashed into. Pity he’d failed to charm her. Had he possessed an ounce of the infamous Baggett charisma, he’d at least have procured her number. No reason this whole trip had to test his moxie. Especially not when there was a gorgeous distraction within easy reach.

      He glanced her way again and watched as she dodged a rather large rooster. The woman was stunning in a nontraditional way. Mouth a tad too wide but lips decidedly lush, eyes a devastating green, her hair varying shades of brown that said someone with talent had taken what nature gave her and enhanced it to suit that pale complexion. She possessed a lovely figure he’d briefly—far СКАЧАТЬ