The only reason he’d gotten a reputation as a playboy was because he sucked at recognizing the women who were only after his checkbook until he’d been out with them a few times. And why should he keep dating that kind of person just to clear his name in the press as someone who couldn’t maintain a relationship?
“I guess we’re victims of bad timing.” Her smile glittered with old-school lip gloss that looked good enough to eat, and underneath the sheen was a pair of lips that could have been an advertisement for collagen injections.
Women would pay big bucks for the pouty, bee-stung mouth she sported naturally. Not that he was mentally making plans for those lips or anything. Just a casual observation.
“My friends say it’s that I hit on all the wrong women.” Standing, he pulled on a cap with the name of an NFL team to throw off people who might recognize him.
The sexy server, Jamie, clutched her chest, her black V-neck blouse framing a soft swell of cleavage and a gold necklace with the initials JM.
“Are your friends in league with mine? My traitorous crew says I’m a magnet for man trouble.”
“Good thing I didn’t just hit on you, Jamie M, or I’d be mighty offended.” He meant to walk out on that note, but something about the brimming good humor in her big brown eyes kept him rooted to the spot.
She looked at him like they shared a secret and he looked at her like—he couldn’t stop. Damn, but he’d missed that feeling. That genuine spark that flared between two people for no discernable reason, the invisible electricity that crackled when your brain read a hundred pleasing signals in someone else and—though you haven’t had time to process them yet—your mind won’t let you walk away without more careful consideration.
Her hand went to her necklace as if she’d forgotten it was there, her eyes never leaving his while they stood together in the back room of the restaurant where a few tables surrounded a fireplace.
From the corner of his eye, Lance spied movement in the short hall that connected the room to the rest of the establishment and he figured he’d better hit the closest exit. It was past 7:00 a.m. and the commuter crowd was out in full force judging by the noise.
He nodded a goodbye that was probably unnecessary, but the movement in the hallway grew loud and bright before he took two steps back. A flood lamp on wheels drenched the room in light. A small camera crew followed shortly behind it.
For a moment, Lance wondered why the media would be hounding him around his home since he hadn’t done anything unusual lately to spark extra interest. Sure, maybe some chick magazine would stake out his place to see where he went at night and if the city’s eligible bachelor had a date, but why a TV camera at seven in the morning?
But then, he became aware of the hot waitress yelling at the cameraman, waving the espresso pot in a threatening gesture.
“Do you have to follow me everywhere?” She gripped the pole for the flood lamp and swiveled it away from them, effectively wrecking the footage. “I’m doing this for charity, pinheads, not to finance your next trip to Fiji. So you can take your little money-hungry selves and—”
“Hey, Jamie,” a guy shouted from behind the camera while Lance tried to blink the spots from his vision. “Are you seeing Lance Montero now?”
Uh-oh.
He’d been recognized. And if he was reading the signs correctly, apparently his waitress was no stranger to the media. In fact, judging by the relationship she seemed to have with the camera crew, he suspected she wasn’t just your average waitress, either.
“Who?” She turned on him, some of her spunky anger for the paparazzi coming at him now, her lips pursed in a tight frown.
Before Lance could answer, a coffee shop patron wearing a Scrapers hat stood up and waved a cell phone at the guy behind the camera.
“I’ve got the whole thing on my video phone. These two just met a minute ago.”
Lance’s jaw dropped at the string of bad luck. He’d wanted to quit dating to keep his romantic life on the down low, and in short order, he’d flirted with a woman who was some sort of media target, and he’d been caught on tape by a TV crew and some bozo who would probably post the video on YouTube before Lance got home.
The throng started firing questions at the waitress, and she arced her arm back like she was seriously considering firing the espresso carafe at one of the reporters’ heads.
Crap.
Knowing he was going to look like a damn deer in headlights on the highlight reel, Lance plotted damage control. Grabbing Jamie M by the hand, he pulled her toward the fire exit in the back and left the crowd behind.
“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?”
Jamie had trotted out better lines than that one in the past when she’d met a cute guy, but she wasn’t terribly concerned about what this man thought of her since he’d just hijacked her from her latest goodwill publicity stunt intended to clean up her trashed reputation. Who was he?
Someone had blurted out the name Lance Montero at the diner, but it didn’t mean much to her.
“I might ask you the same question.”
The hottie who had been flirting with her moments ago now steered her down the street with his big, gorgeous body, never asking her where she’d like to go. He’d slung a possessive arm around her at some point, and navigated through the gross back alley that smelled like refuse to pause at the side door of some major high rise. He reached for the knob as if to escort her inside.
“I don’t think so.” She dug in the heels of her three-inch wedge espadrilles—metaphorically speaking, since the pavement didn’t come close to giving way under her feet.
“You don’t think I’m entitled to know who you are?” He hauled open the door with one hand and tugged a security card out of his wallet with the other one, as if he anticipated more doors to open.
“I think you’re not entitled to corral me into some unknown building just because I let you escort me out of the diner.”
The man was incredibly good-looking with his close-cropped dark hair and melted chocolate-brown eyes. He was tall and buff, a fact she knew from being sheltered under his arm when he’d rushed her out of the coffeehouse. He dressed like some kind of Wall Street executive with an expensive silk suit and a shirt she’d bet was custom made, but his tie was aquamarine and yellow—an artsy statement for a financial dude. Maybe Lance Montero was the new Donald Trump.
Not that she was in the market for a guy with big bucks. In her experience, men with money often came with an inflated sense that the world was theirs for the taking.
“I thought I was helping you out back there.” He relinquished the door and peered over his shoulder, as if he expected the camera crew to come chasing them down the narrow side street.
“Hardly. I’m trying to raise money for charity.” Who was this guy that he could be so oblivious? Maybe he’d had his nose buried in a newspaper when he walked in the coffee shop that morning. “Didn’t you see the signs all over the java place advertising the celebrity fundraiser?”
Ever since her divorce, she’d become one of the most recognizable women in the country thanks to her ex’s efforts to paint her as a spoiled socialite. And admittedly, a small bout of bad behavior on her part. But she’d been in an unhappy place during her divorce. She still found it difficult to scrounge up much regret for the catfight she’d landed in with her ex’s skanky chick on the side.
Of course, she’d regret it even less if it hadn’t been caught on video by someone in the crowd. And if that person hadn’t posted it online. And most especially, if her halter top had remained in place throughout the minibrawl. Her bare boobs had an embarrassingly high hit count.