SLEEPING WITH HER RIVAL Read online

  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

  Epilogue

  © 2003

  March's menu

  BARONESSA GELATERIA

  in Boston's North End

  In addition to our regular flavors of Italian gelato, this month we are featuring:

  · Chocolate cake drizzled with hot caramel

  With a rebellious lock of soft brown hair over his amber-flecked eyes, Flint Kingman had only to look at a woman to have her do his bidding. Until Gina Barone stepped onto his client list. Now he summoned her onto his turf and prepared for a battle of the sexes.

  · A slice of baked Alaska

  Gina Barone worked in a man's world—and knew the male of the species. She would shed her icy persona and become the sultry she-devil in their pretend affair, just as Flint wanted. Then she would burn him.

  · Flesh-burning three-alarm chili

  A wet kiss, an erotic pose… Flint and Gina put on a good show for the paparazzi. But who was more surprised by the genuine heat rising from the pictures—the proper Bostonians, the Barone family … or the couple themselves?

  Buon appetito!

  DYNASTIES:

  THE

  BARONES

  Meet the Barones of Boston—an elite clan caught in a web of danger, deceit … and desire!

  Who's Who in

  SLEEPING WITH HER RIVAL

  Flint Kingman—His fiery, passionate nature clashes with his stoic part-Cherokee heritage. Still, with his dark good looks and rakish smile, he is the media’s darling…

  Gina Barone—Her hot temper steams next to the cold shoulder she turns to everyone she views as corporate competition, including Flint Kingman. With her briefcase and her chignon, she is the ice princess…

  Maria Barone—The baby of the family, she carries on all the traditions at the decades-old Baronessa Gelateria. And she carries on the family secrets, as well…

  * * *

  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 pin-wheels, 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 throu
gh 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."

  And both would cut just as sharp, she thought, just as brutal.

  Like a self-assured predator, he moved a little closer, just enough to put his pheromones between them. She took a deep breath, and the sore in her stomach ignited into a red-hot flame.

  Damn her nerves, she thought. And damn him.

  "I'll stop by your office on Tuesday," he said. "At two."

  "I'll check my calendar and get back to you," she countered, wishing she could dig through her purse for an antacid.

  He shook his head. "Tuesday at two. This isn't up for negotiation."

  Gina bristled, hating Flint Kingman and everything he represented. Would the stress ever end? The guilt? The professional humiliation? "Are you always this pushy?"

  "I'm aggressive, not pushy."

  "You could have fooled me."

  She lifted her chin a notch, and Flint studied the stubborn gesture. Gina Barone was a feminine force to be reckoned with—a long, elegant body, a mass of wavy brown hair swept into a proper chignon and eyes the color of violets.

  A cold shoulder and a hot temper. He'd heard she was an ice princess. A woman much too defensive. A woman who competed with men. And now she would be competing with him.

  She gave him an annoyed look, and he glanced at her untouched hors d'oeuvres. "Don't you like the food?"

  "I haven't had the chance to eat it."

  "Why? Because I interrupted you?" He reached out, snagged a mushroom off her plate and popped it into his mouth, knowing damn well his blatant behavior would rile her even further.

  Those violet eyes turned a little violent, and he suspected she was contemplating a childish act, like flinging the rest of the mushrooms at him. He pictured them hitting his chest like crab-stuffed bullets. "I don't have cooties, Miss Barone."

  "You don't have any manners, either."

  "Of course I do." He went after a dumpling this time, ate it with relish, then reached into his jacket for a monogrammed handkerchief and wiped his hands with casual elegance. This party was too damn prissy, he thought. And so was Gina Barone. Flint was sick to death of the superficial society in which he lived. He used to thrive on this world, but now it seemed like a lie.

  Then again, why wouldn't it? After all, he'd just uncovered a family secret, a skeleton in his closet that made his entire life seem like a lie.

  Still eyeing him with disdain, Gina set her plate on the planter ledge. "Thanks to you, I lost my appetite."

  She didn't have one to begin with, he thought. The trouble at Baronessa Gelati must be weighing heavily on her inexperienced shoulders. She'd never outfoxed a public scandal, particularly something of this magnitude.

  Flint had, of course. Scandals were his specialty. But not family secrets. He couldn't outfox the lie in which he'd been raised.

  He dragged a hand through his hair and then realized that he'd zoned out, losing sight of his priority. Nothing, not even the turmoil in his life, should interfere with business.

  Pulling himself into the moment, he stared at Gina.

  Did she resent his take-charge attitude? Or did the truth upset her? The fact that he was more qualified for the job?

  Truthfully, he didn't care. He was damn good at what he did and he'd worked hard to prove his worth.

  "Stop looking at me like that," she said.

  "Like what?"

  "Like you're superior."

  "Men are superior," he responded, deliberately baiting her.

  "And that's why Adam ate the apple?" she asked. "Because he had brains?"

  "What kind of question is that?"

  She rolled her eyes. "A rhetorical one. Everyone knows Adam ate the apple because of Eve."

  Which meant what? That she thought the male brain hinged on what was behind his zipper? Or in Adam's case, a fig leaf?

  Flint assessed his companion. The lights from the city shimmered behind her, as white and bright as the diamond brooch on the front of her choker. It was an exceptional piece, but he would have preferred an unadorned view of her neck. She had smooth, touchable skin, kissed by the sun and boasting her Sicilian roots.

  His gaze slipped slower, to the swell of her breasts. No matter how high a man's IQ was, his brain did get scrambled now and then. Flint was no exception.

  He lifted his gaze. "I'm not offended, Miss Barone."

  "About what?"

  "About you thinking my brain is in my pants."

  "Well, you should be."

  "And you should offer me a shiny red apple." He paused for effect. "I'll take a big, juicy bite if you will."

  Gina glared at him.

  Enjoying the game, he flashed a flirtatious smile. Sparring with her was actually kind of fun. And it certainly beat crying into his beer.

  "I'll be damned if I'm going to work with you," she said.

  He tilted his head, wondering what she would look like with her hair rioting around her face, framing her in untamed glory. "As I understand it, you don't have a choice."

  "Don't bet on it," she quipped.

  "I'll see you on Tuesday. At two o'clock," he reminded her before he walked away.

  His lovely nemesis was quite a challenge. But he wasn't worried about it. Sooner or later, she'd give in and let him fix the disaster in her life.

  Even if he couldn't fix his own.

  * * *

  Gina awakened with a start the following morning. She sat up and squinted, then hugged a pillow to her chest.

  She'd actually dreamed about Flint Kingman.

  And erotic dream. An illusion of mist and midnight, of his long, lean, muscled torso gleaming in the rain.

  While she'd slept through a stormy night, he'd invaded her bedroom, her private sanctuary.

  Gina reached for her robe and wrapped herself in terry cloth. Everything seemed different now. The cherry armoire and big brass bed. The hardwood floors and Turkish rugs.

  With a deep breath, she turned and peered out the blinds. Thank God, it wasn't raining anymore. She never wanted it to rain again. Not if it meant revisiting that half-naked image of Flint, his head tipped back, water running in rivulets down his stomach and into the waistband of slim black trousers.

  Gina tightened her robe. She'd dreamed of him in the clothes he'd worn last night, only he'd been standing on the rooftop of the hotel, allowing her to undress him.

  Damn that sexy smile of his. And damn that cocky attitude.

  She had two days before their meeting, two days to arm herself with information. She knew virtually nothing about Flint, but she suspected he knew plenty about her.

  He'd probably done his homework weeks ago, analyzing his opponent, charting her strengths and weaknesses, her successes, her failures.

  Well, at least her dreams were her own. And so was her ulcer. She doubted Flint had pried into her medical records.

  She crossed the living room, entered the kitchen and eyed the coffeepot. It sat on a bright, white counter, luring her with the temptation of a hard, strong dose of caffeine.

  With a practical sigh, she poured herself a glass of milk instead, then reached for the phone.

  Seated at the breakfast nook, she looked up Morgan Chancellor's number, hoping the socialite was available. Morgan wasn't a vicious gossip. She didn't spread unholy rumors, but she seemed to know everybody's business. And Gina intended to discuss Flint with someone willing to answer questions about him.

  Morgan picked up on the fifth ring. Gina started a friendly conversation, asking the other woman if she'd enjoyed the charity mixer
.

  Morgan babbled for a while, and Gina pictured the redhead's no-nonsense husband scanning the Boston Globe at their elegant dining room table, shutting out his wife's perky voice.

  Weaving her way toward the man of the hour, Gina said, "By the way, Flint Kingman finally caught up with me."

  "Really? So, what do you think of him?"

  Gina shoved away the image of his dream-induced, rain-shrouded body. "I'm not sure. I can't quite figure him out." When the other woman breathed into the receiver, she asked, "What do you know about him, Morgan?"

  "Hmm. Let's see. His father is an advertising mogul, and his stepmother is absolutely riveting. Of course his real mother was equally stunning. She was a Hollywood starlet, but she died when Flint was a baby."

  Intrigued, Gina adjusted the phone. "Was she famous?"

  "No, but she should have been. Supposedly she was really talented."

  Gina tried to picture the woman who'd given Flint Kingman life. "What was her name?"

  "Danielle Wolf. But there isn't a lot of old press about her. If you're really curious about Flint, you should read up on Tara Shaw."

  "The movie star?" The aging bombshell? The world-famous blonde? "Why? Was she friends with his mother?"

  Morgan made a crunching sound, as if she were eating breakfast while she talked. "Oh, no. It's nothing like that. Flint used to work for Tara."

  "So? He's a PR consultant. That's perfectly understandable."

  The crunching sound stopped. "He had an affair with her, Gina."

  "Oh, my goodness." Flint and Tara Shaw? The screen goddess of the 1970s? She had to be twice his age.

  Morgan resumed eating. "Some reports say she broke his heart. Others say he broke hers. And some say they were both just playing around, tearing up the sheets for the fun of it."

  Gina shifted in her seat, nearly spilling her milk. She grabbed the glass before it tipped over. "When did this happen?"

  "When he was fresh out of college. I'm surprised you didn't hear about it."

  "Normally, I don't pay attention to things like that. I've never really followed the Hollywood scene."