The Taming of a Wild Child. Kimberly Lang

they certainly hadn’t traveled in the same circles in those days. St. Katharine’s Prep was the school of choice for New Orleans’s best families. A safe haven for their precious children from the riff-raff of society, with only a couple of charity-case scholarship students as a nod to “diversity.” The Lorelei he remembered had been spoiled, narcissistic and stuck up. Even when he’d morphed from one of those scholarship students to the son of a major donor by his senior year, Lorelei hadn’t deigned to give him the time of day.

      Oddly, he respected her for that. She might be shallow, but she’d proved herself to have slightly more depth than most of her socialite friends when the sudden influx of money into his family’s bank account hadn’t changed her attitude toward him at all.

      Tequila had, though.

      He had a few hours before checkout, and the need for a nap was nearly overwhelming, but if he headed on home he could nap in his own bed—a bed that did not now carry the scent of Lorelei’s perfume. He might not remember exactly everything that happened last night, but he remembered enough that the light fragrance sent a stab of pure desire through him and made the scratch marks on his back burn. Lorelei certainly had stamina.

      He turned on the TV for background noise and picked a news station to listen to while he waited on the coffee. He still had to decide on a topic for Monday’s column, and …

      The phone rang. Not his phone, but the hotel’s phone. Who would be calling him here? “Hello?”

      “Open your door and let me back in.” The voice was quiet, whispery.

      “Who is this?”

      “Oh, for the love of … How many other women would need to get back into your room this morning?”

      “Why aren’t you in your own room?”

      “Because my key won’t work.” It sounded as if Lorelei was spitting the words through clenched teeth. “I’m now stuck in the stairwell, so will you please open your door and let me in?”

      The image of Lorelei hiding in a stairwell caused him to laugh—which then made his head hurt. He heard her sharp intake of breath, followed by some muttering that probably wasn’t very flattering to him. It was tempting to leave her there, just for the amusement factor and a much-needed ego-check. But Connor and Vivi might not be happy to hear about that.

      He relented. “Come on.”

      He returned the phone to its cradle and crossed the room. Opening the door, he stuck his head out. A few doors down, he saw Lorelei’s dark head do the same. After seeing that the hallway was empty, she sprinted for his door, nearly mowing him down in her haste to get inside. “You could have just knocked, you know.”

      Lorelei didn’t seem to appreciate that statement, shooting him the pissiest look he’d ever seen. “This is a nightmare.”

      “Just go down to the front desk and they’ll recode your key.”

      It seemed Lorelei had an even pissier look—and this one called him all kinds of names, as well. “I am trying to avoid seeing people.” She gestured to her dress. “It’s rather obvious that I didn’t spend the night in my own room, and I don’t want people wondering where I did spend it. Or who with.”

      “Since when do you care?” Lorelei was a LaBlanc. One of the benefits of being a LaBlanc was complete certainty of your place in the food chain. Lorelei could do pretty much whatever she wanted with almost complete impunity. And she had.

      “I care. Let’s just leave it at that. Just call Housekeeping and ask for towels or something. Whoever brings them will have a master key and can let me into my room.”

      “That’s a lot of assumptions.”

      “What?”

      “I sincerely doubt that any hotel employee who wanted to keep their job would just let you in without a way to verify that you are the registered occupant of the room. And there’s no way to do that without going through the front desk.”

      She looked as if she wanted to argue that point. Did the woman seriously not understand what she was asking?

      Lorelei cursed an unladylike blue streak and flopped dramatically on the bed. Then she bounced right back up like the bed was on fire, cheeks flaming.

      Honestly, he had to admit it was a good look for Lorelei. The pink tint offset her fair skin and dark hair and called attention to her high cheekbones. Of course he’d be hard-pressed to decide what wouldn’t be a good look for Lorelei. Even nursing what had to be a massive hangover, she could still stop traffic. There were shadows under those big blue eyes—eyes that were currently shooting daggers at him—but they only emphasized her ethereal, almost fragile-looking bone structure.

      That same structure gave her a willowy look, all long and lean, that made her seem taller than she actually was, and the slightly wrinkled cocktail dress she’d worn to the reception last night only made her legs look longer. The memory of those legs wrapped around him …

      Lorelei was stronger than she looked. The look of fragile elegance was misleading. There was nothing fragile about the personality behind those looks, and Lorelei was pacing now with anger and frustration.

      “What the hell am I going to do?”

      He sighed and reached for his phone. “Let me call Dave.”

      “And this Dave can help how?”

      “Dave is the head of security here. He’ll be able to sort this out. Discreetly, of course.”

      That stopped her pacing. “You just happen to know the head of security for this hotel?”

      “Yes.” He paused in scrolling for Dave’s number and looked up to see her staring at him suspiciously. “Is that a problem?”

      “It just seems convenient.” She shrugged. “Considering.”

      “Considering what?”

      “Your job. Having an in with security here just seems … Well, convenient.”

      The insult, while not unexpected considering the source, and certainly not the worst he’d heard, still rankled. His columns and commentary were syndicated in newspapers around the country, and he’d built his platform and audience the old-fashioned way. She might not like his style, but he’d earned his place in the national discourse. He didn’t need an “in” with anyone to get his leads—hell, these days he had people falling over themselves to provide all the information he needed and then some.

      He tossed the phone on the bed. “You know, I don’t have to do you any favors, and I find myself quickly losing the inclination altogether.”

      Lorelei’s lips pressed together until they disappeared. He could practically see the way she was fighting back a snappy, snarky comeback, but she finally nodded. “You’re right. My apologies. Please call your friend.”

      It was terse, and not completely sincere, but he’d be the bigger person. Accepting the apology at face value, he called Dave. He glossed over the situation as much as he could, trying to avoid mention of Lorelei’s name, how she came to be in his room and why she just couldn’t go to the front desk like a normal person would in this situation. After some laughter and speculation on Dave’s part that Donovan didn’t dare relay to Lorelei, he hung up. “Someone from Security will be up with a key to your room shortly. You’ll just need to hang out here a little while longer.”

      “Well, it’s not like I have anyplace else to go.” She walked over to the small coffeepot and asked, “Do you mind? I feel near death.”

      “Help yourself.”

      She did, and then sat in the leather chair. Legs crossed at the ankle, she held the cup with both hands and sipped gratefully. It was an incongruous picture: a disheveled Lorelei, hair rioting around her face and shoulders, in an obviously expensive, though slightly-the-worse-for-wear dress and stiletto