Date with a Diva. Joanne Rock

yet. Lainie was clutching Robert’s hand with the mindless conviction of someone who needed to be right about her choices no matter what the cost. She’d never been a clingy woman, but she’d always been certain that whatever she chose must be right by sheer virtue of the fact that she’d made the decision.

      So damn full of herself.

      Lainie picked up the flask again, promising herself this would be her last sip. She was a one-or-two glass kind of woman, refusing to ever succumb to a state of being where she would be out of control. Sloppy. Or worst of all, stupid.

      Savoring the burn in her throat from that last swig even as she crammed the flask back in her purse, she was surprised to see tears fall on the newspaper she held in her lap.

      He deserved to be in jail. She wanted him in jail, damn it. She just hadn’t counted on how much the confirmation of his criminal activity in black and white would make her feel like a first-class failure.

      Grateful she’d escaped Club Paradise before she lost it, Lainie let the tears dot the newsprint. Sure she’d recovered financially from the whole disaster—she’d left her law practice and ended up taking over Club Paradise with the help of three partners. They’d shifted the focus of the resort from a schmaltzy couples’ love nest to a sleek, sensuous playground for singles, and met with phenomenal success.

      But in all the months she’d struggled to put the business in the black, Lainie had never once stopped to put her heart back in order. Damn. Damn. Damn.

      Folding and unfolding the newspaper in her lap, Lainie allowed the hurt of Robert’s betrayal to wash over her. She’d always hated being the butt of a joke, and now she seemed to be a full-blown source of public ridicule. Even now during her anonymous minibinge on the beach she felt people’s eyes on her, as if they were pointing and staring behind her back. Ridiculous.

      She would indulge the pity party for ten more minutes and then she’d get back to business. Back to her one-track life.

      But as she stared down at the front page of the Miami Herald, Lainie spied a pair of men’s worn leather loafers out of the corner of her eye. Great. Just what she didn’t need. Witnesses to the damn pity party.

      Apparently there were eyes on her after all. With any luck, those eyes belonged to someone who didn’t have a damn clue about her hideous mistake.

      Thankfully, the shoes stepped back again, away from her and her personal dark cloud. But just as she breathed a sigh of relief, the shoes came back. Closer. Paused.

      Irritated, Lainie arranged her features in a death stare guaranteed to set any man on his ass. As she lifted her chin and spied the rest of the loafer owner, however, it occurred to her there might be better uses for this particular man’s ass.

      A marathon sack session immediately sprang to mind.

      He had the body of an athlete, which couldn’t be disguised by his khaki shorts and black polo shirt with some kind of panther logo on the pocket. From the mouthwatering definition of his pecs against the cotton fabric, she just knew he’d have amazing abs under that shirt. At a few inches over six foot, he had long arms and legs, bronzed and sprinkled with dark hair, thanks to some sort of Mediterranean heritage.

      And, yes, after she noticed the body that looked as if it could go all night long, she did also take a glance at his face. With his thick dark hair and long eyelashes framing gorgeous brown eyes, he would have been way too pretty if not for a nose that had seen the wrong end of too many fistfights. Two distinct crooks could have been borderline disfiguring on anyone else, but they gave this guy a certain all-male, don’t-mess-with-me appeal.

      “Lainie?”

      So much for anonymous.

      She shook off her frank observation of the interloper, wondering where all that female interest had come from. She hadn’t noticed any man that way since…before she got married.

      Welcome back, hormones.

      Still, as nice as it might be to know she could experience the itch, she wasn’t in any mood for scratching today. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

      Scavenging for some semblance of the death stare, she settled for a mild glare. No matter how enticing this newcomer might be, she really needed to be alone today until she could rein in her messy emotions.

      “I’m Nico.” He said it with the certainty of a man who knew his identity would explain everything.

      “I’m usually good with names, but—”

      “Nico Cesare. Giselle’s brother?” He sounded vaguely put out. That was the problem with good-looking men. They thought they were too memorable to forget.

      Giselle Cesare was one of four partners that owned controlling shares of Club Paradise. She and Lainie had their differences since Giselle had slept with Lainie’s ex-husband—before they’d divorced. Very messy situation all around. Their partnership had been hideously tense until they’d joined forces in a mini-sting operation to bring Robert Flynn to justice.

      And come to think of it, there had been another guy who’d waltzed onto the scene the day they’d brought down Robert.

      She snapped her fingers as she recalled the man’s face.

      “You were there the day they arrested my ex.” The memory blindsided her with sudden clarity. She’d put the event out of her mind until today’s newspaper had hit her desk.

      His expression softened. “When Giselle’s boyfriend asked me for backup, how could I refuse a chance to bring down the pissant crook who screwed over my sister?” As he shrugged, his square shoulders drew her eye. “No offense.”

      Lainie let the old anger roll over her. Off her. “Robert Flynn has already offended me more than any one woman deserves. I think I’m impervious to your run-of-the mill slights and slurs.”

      “But I didn’t mean—”

      “You didn’t mean to imply I married a blight on humanity? Of course you did. And how can I penalize you for an honest observation?”

      “Touchy subject?” He reached in his pocket and withdrew some sort of orange-and-purple beanbag. Whatever it was, he squeezed the fabric back and forth between his fingers in an almost unconscious gesture.

      “Not at all.” She folded the newspaper article in half, unwilling to let him see she’d been wasting even ten minutes mourning her failed marriage to a criminal. She peered around the beach in an effort to change the subject. “You live around here?”

      “No. I just happened to be in the neighborhood. I thought I recognized you from Club Paradise and I—” he worked the little orange-and-purple sack in his hand faster “—thought I shouldn’t let you drink alone.”

      Crap.

      “You saw me hitting the bottle?” Now the only man who’d awakened her hibernating hormones in years thought she was a closet drunk. Probably just as well since she had no business drooling over Giselle’s too handsome brother anyhow. And hadn’t her friend said all her brothers were overprotective and chauvinistic? Thanks, but no thanks.

      “It seemed a little incongruous for a businesswoman wearing white linen to go for the flask in the middle of a public beach.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of her bench. “Mind if I join you?”

      “Why? So you can make sure your sister’s business partner doesn’t go on a bender in full view of the all-important Miami tourist crowd?”

      “Um. No.” Nico swiveled his head around to glance up and down the beach. “I read the paper today, too. And in my family, we don’t let each other drink alone.”

      A pause stretched between them. His words flustered her more than she would let on, but maybe that was just because she felt like an emotional basket case today. And, damn it, since when were good-looking guys also thoughtful? Maybe she was just disconcerted because he insisted on playing against type.

      “You’re