Sleeping With Her Rival. Sheri WhiteFeather

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 pinwheels, 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 through 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.