Seduced on the Red Carpet. Ann Christopher

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      What? Was this clown for real? She’s almost mauled by a schizophrenic Great Dane and then she gets blamed for making the dog behave? Again—uh-uh. Not gonna happen.

      “Excuse me,” she said, turning and letting the sarcasm fly, “but maybe you didn’t notice that Marmaduke here is a menace to society and—oh.”

      Whatever else she’d been about to say disappeared in a tiny little poof! when she locked gazes with the owner of that booming voice and those feet, who was clearly an asshole at heart hiding behind the body and face of a god.

      The first thing she noticed was his height. He was taller—taller!—than she was, which was an event so rare in the non-NBA population that it might have been a full solar eclipse during a leap year. But he wasn’t a beanpole, which she could clearly see because he filled out his Chambers Winery powder-blue polo shirt and khakis in spectacular fashion, with squared shoulders, heavy biceps, a flat belly and narrow hips that told her, quite plainly, that he spent a little time lifting weights when he wasn’t honing his skills at being a world-class jerk.

      He was brown-skinned and clean-shaven, with skulltrimmed black hair and eyes that blazed copper fire at her in the late morning sun. Unsmiling, he shifted his accusatory gaze between her and the dog at her feet. She had the nagging feeling that he was sorry the dog hadn’t finished her off and planned to do the job himself.

      Okay, Livie. Put your eyes back in your head and get a grip.

      “That dog—” she pointed to the offender lest there was any confusion about the dog in question “—needs to be on a leash.”

      Mr. Personality, apparently deciding not to waste any unnecessary words on her, responded by raising one heavy eyebrow and holding up a black leash for her to see.

      “Great.” Mollified but still irritated, she matched him glare for glare. “Are you planning to use it anytime soon?”

      “If you don’t mind.”

      His exaggerated politeness scraped across her nerves like tree bark. Still glowering, she stepped aside, gave him a be-my-guest flick of her hand and watched to see if he had any dog skills.

      He didn’t. Inching closer with a wariness that was an open invitation to the dog to cull this weak member from the pack, he reached out with the leash, ready to clip it on the dog’s collar.

      The dog’s head came up. One side of his black-lipped mouth pulled back just far enough to reveal a white incisor that looked sharp enough to mince walrus hide, and the beast emitted a rumbling growl. The man froze, arm outstretched. Livia froze, too, and the dog wasn’t even looking at her; she’d heard less fearsome growls coming from the lionesses on Animal Planet shows as they ripped hapless wildebeests to shreds.

      The man, his cheeks coloring with either blind terror or embarrassment, shot a glance at Livia and took a minute to regroup. Then he cleared his throat, licked his lips and tried another tactic.

      “Nice doggy,” he began. “I’ve got a cookie for you, you big monster, if you let me—”

      Another growl, this one punctuated by the flattening of the hound’s ears and the revelation of several more teeth.

      Oh, for God’s sake. Hadn’t this guy ever seen The Dog Wrangler? He was doing it all wrong and she didn’t have the inclination to watch the dog toy with him any longer.

      “Here,” she snapped, snatching the leash from his hand.

      “Wait—”

      The dog tilted his head in her direction and tried that growling nonsense again, but she’d had enough. Snapping her fingers at him, she held her index finger down in his face.

      “Hey,” she warned, keeping her voice low and calm.

      The dog immediately dropped his head back on his paws and stared up at her with dewy eyes, as though he’d been waiting all his life for someone to appear, seize power and become the undisputed leader of his pack. Taking advantage of this peaceful moment, she clipped the leash onto his collar and handed it off to the man.

      “That’s how it’s done.” Since the man didn’t know she’d never leashed a growling dog before in her life, she didn’t bother keeping the smugness out of her voice. “No need to thank me.”

      The man clenched his jaw in the back, and she waited to hear the snap of his teeth breaking. “Like I said—what did you do to my dog? He doesn’t behave for anyone.”

      Sooo…wait. He hadn’t been accusing her of abusing the animal?

      “I just, ah, tried to be assertive with him. Let him know who’s in charge. You know.”

      “I don’t know, actually.” His jaw loosened but he still seemed grudging with his words. “Thanks.”

      “You should watch The Dog Wrangler.”

      “Right,” he said sourly.

      Wow. This guy and his dog both needed attitude adjustments. Big-time. Raising her brows—was there something bitter here in the water in Napa or what?—she turned back to her open trunk and suitcase.

      “I’ll just take my bag and check in—”

      “Let me.” Before she could object, and she planned to object because she hated it when overzealous bellhops or doormen snatched the bags out of your hand in their relentless quest for a big tip, even when you could clearly handle the bags yourself, he reached for her bag. “I’m happy to help.”

      She studied his grim face. “I can see that. But really, I’ve got it.”

      Ignoring her, he set the bag on the ground and walked around to peer inside the car’s window for who knew what. Seeing nothing but empty car, he looked back up the drive, as though he expected the imminent arrival of someone or something.

      “Where’s the rest?” he asked.

      “Of what?”

      “Your luggage? Your entourage?”

      Oh. Oh, okay. She got it. He, like other idiots worldwide, assumed that because she was a famous model, she was a diva-licious bitch. Or maybe he’d read some of her press coverage from back in the day, when she was young and stupid, and thought she was still as big an airhead as she’d ever been. Whatever. Clearly he needed a little schooling in both manners and customer service relations, and she was just the woman to do it.

      “I take it you know who I am.”

      Nothing at all changed in his expression, but the quick skim of that light brown gaze down her body and back up again all but ignited sparks across her skin.

      “Every man who’s ever bought the Swimsuit Issue knows who you are.”

      Livia froze, her pulse galloping away like a bee-stung horse, because she realized, with sudden excruciating clarity, that this man was trouble. Men checked her out all the time, which was no big deal. She was used to and impervious to it.

      This was different.

      This СКАЧАТЬ