Insatiable. Julie Leto

      “Samantha, this is Mitchell. Respond please.”

      Samantha unhooked the walkie-talkie from her belt and turned from the chatter and music echoing through the professionally designed booths and displays. “Deveaux, here.”

      “The CEO of LaRocca Foods is on his way to his booth. He’s a major player. Tim’s with him. Stand tall.”

      Samantha smirked. Another executive type headed toward his company’s booth and another opportunity for the security staff to play Secret Service to people whose importance hardly warranted professional protection. Except for the guys at the front assigned to allow entrance to paid conventioneers, the Expo was hardly high-risk. Now, if Mr. Model-licious did indeed plan an appearance as rumored, Sam might get her wish. Mass hysteria and raging female hormones could cause a very dangerous mix.

      She knew that firsthand.

      “Gotcha, boss.”

      “And tell Gumbert to return to her position.”

      Ruby slipped her glasses back onto her regal nose. “I guess the ogle-fest is over. Back to ice-cream land. How the heck do they expect me to stay on this diet when they keep handing me samples of mint chocolate chip? Still want to trade?”

      Samantha shook her head. She had few weaknesses in the world, but one was definitely butter pecan ice cream, which she knew they were also serving at the booth near Ruby’s station.

      “Fat chance.”

      Ruby patted her flat tummy. “Fat is right. Have fun with the big shot.”

      Samantha saluted then snapped the walkie-talkie back onto her belt, slipped her hands behind her back and waited for the corporate executive to rush by and ignore her diligence. She hated this job. She hated hating this job. So far, the only good thing to come of her move was being closer to her sister and mother—and again, the definition of good came into question.

      Her sister, when not honeymooning in some South American country, was a trip in herself—and gave new meaning to the term unconventional. Her mother, a world-renowned medium and self-proclaimed New Orleans spirit guide, defied any and all definitions. But so far, Endora had been supportive of Samantha’s return, even when she’d taken this “rent-a-cop” deal to supplement her income instead of accepting Mommy’s proffered handout.

      Which she wouldn’t need if her father hadn’t reinvested the money he owed her from her last job into his upcoming film. He’d named her as a producer and assumed she’d be thrilled. She could end up obscenely rich if the movie proved a hit. Too bad Sam didn’t care about vulgar wealth. She just wanted to be comfortable, stable and self-sufficient. A couple of months under her brother-in-law’s tutelage and she’d be a fully licensed, salary-earning bodyguard. She’d already obtained her concealed-weapon permit and had begun her coursework over the Internet. Now she needed some on-the-job training.

      But four weeks after their first scheduled return date, Brandon and Serena were still sunning and loving on a beach in Rio de Janeiro. Never mind that Sam had bought and installed a state-of-the-art computer system. Never mind that she’d used next month’s office rent to invest in several tracking devices, night-vision goggles and the smallest communications mechanisms she’d ever seen. They’d be the best-outfitted outfit in the personal-protection game.

      If they didn’t go out of business first. Okay, that was an overstatement. She’d only spent a couple thousand of the petty cash and next month’s office rent. But if she didn’t restore the treasury soon, she’d have to call Brandon and ask for more money—and admit she’d spent slightly more than he’d authorized.

      A growing disturbance near the west entrance caught her eye, sending her senses to alert mode. Flanked by two security guards, a threesome of somber-faced suits made their way through the crowd. Sam recognized the first man as Tim Tousignant, the dynamic young executive at the helm of the massive Expo and the man who’d approved her assignment. Good-looking and driven, he impressed Sam with his desire to run any event with smooth precision. Not enough to accept his invitation to dinner, but Sam didn’t mix business with pleasure. Not anymore.

      The woman on his left, a tall, dark beauty with luminous olive skin clutched a stack of presentation folders and barely contained a wry smile as she glanced at the growing crowd. She leaned nearer to the man in the center and said something she obviously thought was hilarious.

      Nearly a head taller than the others, the CEO of LaRocca Foods obviously didn’t agree. He shot his companion a sharp look and muttered a few words that caused her laughter to die a quick death. He watched his feet and held his hand up to the growing number of followers in a gesture more like a “stop” sign than a wave.

      Samantha’s skin prickled.

      Lured by the presence of this reluctant Pied Piper, people left the other displays to follow the hulking executive and his burgeoning entourage toward Sam’s end of the aisle near the north exit. An electric buzz rippled through the Superdome until waves of convention goers, mostly female, rushed toward the five-hundred-square-foot area reserved by LaRocca Foods. Mitchell said the CEO, right? She glanced at the label again, then back at the man in the middle of the swarming horde.

      Her heart skittered, but then she smiled. A few moments ago, the man’s incredible looks and intense gaze, captured on the pasta label, had affected her like a virulent potion. Now she had the perfect antidote—his obvious arrogance.

      If he wasn’t the end-all, be-all of shameless self-promotion, she didn’t know who was. Mr. Chief Executive Officer, sans the top half of his pressed Italian suit, was indeed the sexy hunk-o-rama on his newest product.

      Samantha started to laugh, but stopped when the security guards approached, their eyes wide as the swollen throng closed in. A few women squealed. Manicured hands reached across the guards, grabbing at the CEO who still walked, head down, until the mob stopped his progress.

      “Oh, God, it’s him! Dominick LaRocca!” someone shrieked.

      “You can dig in my field anytime, Pasta Man!”

      “I’m hungry for more than sauce, hot stuff! Over here!”

      For an instant, Sam thought she’d been transported onto Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras. A middle-aged woman in a silk blouse lifted her shirt and bra to the delight of every man within leering distance. The crowd, effectively incited, surged, pressing the small group of five to the wall. Sam jumped onto the dais to regain her fix on LaRocca and company.

      Time to work.

      She radioed for backup, then shouted at the two security guards ineffectively trying to hold the women back with drawn nightsticks. Folders scattered as the pretty olive-skinned woman twisted in front of her boss to put one more barrier between him and the tentacles of hungry hands. Sam lost sight of Tim altogether, but figured protecting the man at the center of the disturbance was priority one, especially since he was the one causing the melee.

      She couldn’t wait for the guards to lead him closer to the exit. She tucked her hair under her cap and slipped into the crowd, diving low and pushing through the writhing mass until she reached her colleagues. They begged the women to stand aside, using minimal force despite the growing danger.

      “I called for backup,” Samantha yelled before pressing between the ineffective wall they’d formed to keep the CEO from harm. “Keep them back!”

      “One heck of a security plan you have here,” LaRocca growled.

      She ignored him and grabbed his elbow.

      “Follow me.”

      “Wait. Where’s Anita?”

      Samantha felt certain Anita would fare better once the object of these women’s desires was removed from the hall.

      “She’ll be fine once you’re safe.”

      “Wait!”

      Undoubtedly used to calling the shots, he dodged her attempts to pull him out. Samantha knew better than