Insatiable. Julie Leto

strands of blond spilling out to brush her shoulders. “That’s not the way we do things in Louisiana,” she said proudly, adding a Creole lilt to her accent-free voice. “This is a Southern state, remember? Hospitality and all that.”

      “Yes, well, I’m from Chicago. We do things just fine on our own. The last thing I need is another woman clamoring to hold my hand.”

      She stopped her progression down the hall and impaled him with a look of utter disbelief. “I’ve met lots of people from Chicago and not one was downright rude. Excuse me for pointing out the obvious, but I did just save your hide. And I didn’t touch your hands in the process.”

      He didn’t want to think about what she had touched. And how that touching had sent his pulse rate skyrocketing.

      “You have my gratitude.” He reached for his wallet, but the widening of her azure eyes to the size of jar lids stopped him from offering money for her service. He pocketed his eelskin billfold. “If you could just point me to the right door?”

      The sassy security guard with the name Deveaux stitched above her left breast—a rather pert, curvaceous breast—slid her cap off her head, releasing the full, bouncy tumble of her hair. She eyed him head to toe, a growing distaste skewing her bowed lips into an unattractive sneer.

      “The blue door at the end of the hall.”

      He nodded to her curtly—just to make sure she didn’t follow him—and proceeded in the direction she’d indicated. Insulting women hadn’t been a mainstay of his behavior until recently, when Nana Rose and Nana Fae schemed to make him the most eligible bachelor on the Fortune 500. With the gleeful help of his cousin, Anita, they’d successfully transformed him from a driven businessman into a cynical, overbearing slave driver. He had no right to take his frustration out on Miss Deveaux, but she had the unfortunate luck to be the nearest woman in range of his anger. He’d dictate a letter of commendation to her superiors as soon as he found Anita.

      Yanking at the latch on the door she’d indicated, he turned his thoughts from the woman behind him to plotting how he could reschedule his appearance at the booth. He’d planned to glad-hand some of the industry’s largest chains into awarding his products more shelf space and additional end-cap promotions. He’d be damned if he’d abandon his short-term goals for the Expo just because his grandmothers intended to make him the Fabio of the grocery business.

      As he walked across the threshold, a distinctly feminine squeal snapped up his head.

      “It’s him! Marry me, Pasta Man!”

      Nick glanced over his shoulder at the slowly closing blue door. She’d said “blue,” right? Yet he was now standing in the registration area of the Expo instead of a stairwell to his hotel. And one by one, recognition dawned on the faces of several women just a few feet away.

      Here I go again.

      SERVES HIM RIGHT.

      From behind, Samantha watched LaRocca’s fists clench. His shoulders tightened. She could only imagine the look on his face—and the horror she pictured gave an extra curve to the smile bowing her mouth. Some men had to learn the hard way. Samantha Deveaux was not a woman to be dismissed. Someone might do it once. But twice? Not likely. Not anymore.

      Disheveled and distraught, the women being escorted out of the Superdome struggled against the careful grasps of several annoyed security guards. As Sam figured, her co-workers had reached the main lobby to escort the rowdiest women out of the Expo Hall to cool off. She’d just stoked the flame by misleading the lion right back into the den.

      She considered letting the blue door slam shut behind Dominick LaRocca, leaving him at the mercy of the hormonally charged females on the other side, but her duty to protect him intruded on her fun. Pushing the door open at the last possible minute, she allowed him to slip back into the hall before the crowd attacked again.

      “Did I say blue?” she asked once the door slammed shut, sugar dripping from each syllable. “I meant gold. The gold door is the stairwell, the blue door leads to the lobby.” She pointed to each as she spoke, as if willing herself to remember facts she obviously knew perfectly well.

      A storm swirled in his eyes, reminding her of a deadly waterspout in the gulf. “That was uncalled for,” he snapped, once again trying to straighten his tie and jacket despite that he looked as if he’d just…well, as if he’d just escaped a screaming crowd of crazed women clamoring for his bod.

      “I beg to differ.” Samantha planted her fists on her hips. “I’d say it was completely called for. You were rude and I won’t be treated like a groupie. My job—in addition to saving your butt—is to escort you to safety. If you won’t let me do that job, then I can’t be responsible for the consequences.”

      He stood straighter as he caught his breath, and Samantha suddenly found his height imposing. If it weren’t for the twinkle of amusement dancing in his green eyes, she might have backed down. “So you led me back into the ring? Revenge, quick and simple. That’s a concept I understand.”

      She shook her head. “I don’t believe in revenge.” Samantha considered that claim for a minute and decided it wasn’t entirely truthful. It had been. Once. When she didn’t know better. “No, that’s not true. I do believe in revenge. In fact, I kind of dig it.”

      “Dig it? How old are you?”

      “Old enough to have a father who still says ‘dig it’ and ‘groovy.’ And for the record, it isn’t considered polite to ask a woman her age.”

      “Well, aren’t you just New Orleans’ answer to Miss Manners. I suppose it’s the height of proper etiquette to throw a drowning man back into shark-infested waters?” He gestured toward the blue door, his expression incredulous.

      She pursed her lips. “We could call it even.”

      Despite his best efforts, a tiny grin broke through his scowl. “Very reasonable. Now, if you’d be so kind, Miss Deveaux, would you personally escort me to some quiet exit so I can return to my hotel?”

      “Name’s Samantha. And I’d be delighted to see you safely out of the Dome, Mr. LaRocca.”

      He hesitated, then thrust his hand forward in a businesslike pose. “Nick. Please.”

      Sam glanced at his eyes first, then his hand, assessing the threat of touching him. The feel of him against her still resonated throughout the full length of her body, still lingered along the edges of her skin. But her newfound independence and determination wouldn’t allow her to refuse.

      She concentrated all of her strength into giving him one hearty handshake, but was ill prepared for the electric shock that crackled between their palms.

      “Ow!”

      He pulled back, glanced at his hand and then at her.

      “Sorry. I’m one of those people who conducts a lot of electricity,” she explained, trying to remember the last time she’d shocked someone on such a warm and humid day.

      “I’ll just bet you do.” His comment was cryptic, but the deepened crease of two slashlike dimples told her he implied something sexual. Yet the fanciful glint disappeared quickly, leaving her to wonder if this man had just flirted with her or if her celibacy was finally driving her mad.

      He gestured for her to lead the way, following a few steps behind when she opened the gold door across the hall, checked that the stairwell was empty and secure, then ushered him downstairs.

      Leaving the Superdome without escort posed a greater threat now that a crowd had formed outside, so once they reached the lower level, Sam radioed for instructions. Tim Tousignant, the SuperMarketing Expo executive who’d also been caught in the crush, met them in the security office to ensure that Mr. LaRocca was indeed well and would return to give his presentation as soon as additional security measures were in place. Tim offered his personal limousine to deliver the Chicago food magnate back to his hotel, with Samantha as escort.

      “I don’t