The Taming of a Wild Child (2 page)

“Why aren’t you in your own room?”

“Because my key won’t work.” It sounded as if Lorelei was spitting the words through clenched teeth. “I’m now stuck in the stairwell, so will you please open your door and let me in?”

The image of Lorelei hiding in a stairwell caused him to laugh—which then made his head hurt. He heard her sharp intake of breath, followed by some muttering that probably wasn’t very flattering to him. It was tempting to leave her there, just for the amusement factor and a much-needed ego-check. But Connor and Vivi might not be happy to hear about that.

He relented. “Come on.”

He returned the phone to its cradle and crossed the room. Opening the door, he stuck his head out. A few doors down, he saw Lorelei’s dark head do the same. After seeing that the hallway was empty, she sprinted for his door, nearly mowing him down in her haste to get inside. “You could have just knocked, you know.”

Lorelei didn’t seem to appreciate that statement, shooting him the pissiest look he’d ever seen. “This is a nightmare.”

“Just go down to the front desk and they’ll recode your key.”

It seemed Lorelei had an even pissier look—and this one called him all kinds of names, as well. “I am trying to avoid seeing people.” She gestured to her dress. “It’s rather obvious that I didn’t spend the night in my own room, and I don’t want people wondering where I
did
spend it. Or who with.”

“Since when do you care?” Lorelei was a LaBlanc. One of the benefits of being a LaBlanc was complete certainty of your place in the food chain. Lorelei could do pretty much whatever she wanted with almost complete impunity. And she had.

“I care. Let’s just leave it at that. Just call Housekeeping and ask for towels or something. Whoever brings them will have a master key and can let me into my room.”

“That’s a lot of assumptions.”

“What?”

“I sincerely doubt that any hotel employee who wanted to keep their job would just let you in without a way to verify that you are the registered occupant of the room. And there’s no way to do that without going through the front desk.”

She looked as if she wanted to argue that point. Did the woman seriously not understand what she was asking?

Lorelei cursed an unladylike blue streak and flopped dramatically on the bed. Then she bounced right back up like the bed was on fire, cheeks flaming.

Honestly, he had to admit it was a good look for Lorelei. The pink tint offset her fair skin and dark hair and called attention to her high cheekbones. Of course he’d be hard-pressed
to decide what
wouldn’t
be a good look for Lorelei. Even nursing what had to be a massive hangover, she could still stop traffic. There were shadows under those big blue eyes—eyes that were currently shooting daggers at him—but they only emphasized her ethereal, almost fragile-looking bone structure.

That same structure gave her a willowy look, all long and lean, that made her seem taller than she actually was, and the slightly wrinkled cocktail dress she’d worn to the reception last night only made her legs look longer. The memory of those legs wrapped around him …

Lorelei was stronger than she looked. The look of fragile elegance was misleading. There was
nothing
fragile about the personality behind those looks, and Lorelei was pacing now with anger and frustration.

“What the hell am I going to do?”

He sighed and reached for his phone. “Let me call Dave.”

“And this Dave can help how?”

“Dave is the head of security here. He’ll be able to sort this out. Discreetly, of course.”

That stopped her pacing. “You just
happen
to know the head of security for this hotel?”

“Yes.” He paused in scrolling for Dave’s number and looked up to see her staring at him suspiciously. “Is that a problem?”

“It just seems convenient.” She shrugged. “Considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Your job. Having an in with security here just seems … Well,
convenient
.”

The insult, while not unexpected considering the source, and certainly not the worst he’d heard, still rankled. His columns and commentary were syndicated in
newspapers around the country, and he’d built his platform and audience the old-fashioned way. She might not like his style, but he’d earned his place in the national discourse. He didn’t need an “in” with anyone to get his leads—hell, these days he had people falling over themselves to provide all the information he needed and then some.

He tossed the phone on the bed. “You know, I don’t
have
to do you any favors, and I find myself quickly losing the inclination altogether.”

Lorelei’s lips pressed together until they disappeared. He could practically see the way she was fighting back a snappy, snarky comeback, but she finally nodded. “You’re right. My apologies. Please call your friend.”

It was terse, and not completely sincere, but he’d be the bigger person. Accepting the apology at face value, he called Dave. He glossed over the situation as much as he could, trying to avoid mention of Lorelei’s name, how she came to be in his room and why she just couldn’t go to the front desk like a normal person would in this situation. After some laughter and speculation on Dave’s part that Donovan didn’t dare relay to Lorelei, he hung up. “Someone from Security will be up with a key to your room shortly. You’ll just need to hang out here a little while longer.”

“Well, it’s not like I have anyplace else to go.” She walked over to the small coffeepot and asked, “Do you mind? I feel near death.”

“Help yourself.”

She did, and then sat in the leather chair. Legs crossed at the ankle, she held the cup with both hands and sipped gratefully. It was an incongruous picture: a disheveled Lorelei, hair rioting around her face and shoulders, in an obviously expensive, though slightly-the-worse-for-wear
dress and stiletto heels, sitting primly in his hotel room as if they were politely having tea in the parlor.

And he knew exactly what kind of underwear she had on.

Somehow this was even more awkward than the wake-up-naked-and-get-dressed part. Were they supposed to make small talk now or something? What would an appropriate topic be?

There was small comfort in the fact that Lorelei seemed equally at a loss. He’d bet this situation was not covered in cotillion classes. She studied the art on the wall like it was an Old Master, pondered her coffee like it held the meaning of life, then finally turned her attention to her fingernails. He kept one eye on the TV and feigned interest in the talking heads on the morning show. He’d made his living by always having something to say, but this time his vaunted golden tongue failed him.

Lorelei cleared her throat. “So, will you be writing about the wedding?”

Lord, she really had no idea what he did for a living. “I don’t do society news, Lorelei. I came as a guest to the wedding, nothing more.”

“I had no idea you’d become such good friends with Connor and Vivi.”

“I sit on two boards with Vivi. We share an interest in the arts. Connor and I have several mutual friends. I wouldn’t exactly call us close, but I probably know them at least as well as a third of that guest list.”

“They are a popular couple.”

“Indeed.”

“And it was an amazing event, start to finish.”

It had been a star-studded event, thanks to Connor’s fame, and the entire ranks of the New Orleans elite had
been there, traveling in their usual pack. “I expected nothing less.”

Lorelei nodded, and he realized that topic had now run its course. Well, that had killed a couple of minutes. How long would it take Security to bring Lorelei a key?

She seemed to be wondering the same thing. “I wish they’d hurry.”

“Me, too. I have things I need to do.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you.”

His three options were to take a shower, take a nap or go home—none of which he could do while Lorelei was parked in his room. “I’m sure they’ll be here shortly.”

Hard on those words there was a knock at the door, and Lorelei jumped up as he went to answer it. Her sigh of relief when the man identified himself as the assistant head of security was audible from across the room. He asked to see her ID, verified her as the occupant of the room, then handed her a key. “Would you like me to escort you to your room, miss?”

“No!” she practically shouted, before she caught herself and lowered her voice. “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

The man nodded, then left without question, and Donovan wondered exactly what Dave had told him about his assignment. Of course it probably wasn’t the oddest thing Security had ever done: this hotel catered to an elite crowd, and that elite had probably made far more questionable requests of Security in the past. He’d moved more toward analysis and away from the “shocking exposé” camp of journalism himself, but he’d bet there were all kinds of stories to be told from this hotel.

Lorelei cleared her throat, bringing him back to his own little drama. “Goodbye. Again. Thank you for your assistance, and, um, have a nice life.”

The re-do of her exit lacked the dramatic huff this time,
but it retained its silliness as Lorelei once again checked the hall and slipped out like a bumbling spy in a bad movie.

At least he knew she wouldn’t be back this time. Oddly, that seemed to be a little of a letdown. Lorelei certainly had entertainment value.

Although he’d been thinking more about the events of the morning, not last night, another particularly
entertaining
visual flashed across his mind.

And that quickly answered his question about what he’d do now: a cold shower was calling his name.

A
GUILTY CONSCIENCE
was a terrible thing. It wasn’t something Lorelei was overly familiar with, as she intentionally kept away from situations that might lead to one. She had regrets, sure, but she’d always lived—well, until recently—by the philosophy that she’d rather regret the things she’d done than regret that she’d never done them at all. So why did this thing with Donovan seem to be haunting her?

It wasn’t even worry over what people might say. As far as she could tell, no one knew. Vivi and Connor had left for their honeymoon and Vivi hadn’t said a word. She’d waited on pins and needles for the news to circulate, but it seemed she was going to get away with it. She’d gotten lucky by not screwing the whole plan up at the eleventh hour.

So the worry had to be over Donovan himself.

Over the last three days, more of her memory had returned—but not the parts she’d have liked. If she
had
to carry around the knowledge that she’d had sex with Donovan St. James, she’d like to be in possession of memories of the good stuff, too. She had all the knowledge she needed to know that she’d enjoyed herself, but she lacked the memory of the proof. It seemed like a shame.

She rolled over and punched her pillow into shape.
Vague, incomplete dreams were leaving her tired and grouchy in the mornings and, even worse, leaving her with a ghostly, frustrated feeling.

Maybe that was why she couldn’t quite shake the whole situation off: she wanted that memory and her brain was determined to wring out the tequila and find it. Maybe she wasn’t feeling guilty; maybe she was just confusing one nagging feeling with another.

And now she had to be hallucinating, because she could
hear
Donovan’s voice. She sat up. That wasn’t a hallucination; that really was Donovan’s voice, coming from her living room.
What the hell?
Shock rocketed through her as she heaved herself out of bed, covers flying. She was in the hallway before she caught herself in the middle of the ridiculous thought.

It was coming from the TV.

“Morning.” Callie sat on the couch, hugging a cup of coffee and watching the morning news. She was dressed already, her backpack on the coffee table, ready to go.

Although this was technically still Vivi’s house, Vivi had moved out six months ago, after news of her engagement to Connor hit the press. The little house on Frenchman Street just couldn’t provide the privacy and security Connor and Vivi needed. Lorelei had enjoyed the solitude for about two weeks, but had then offered Vivi’s old room to a friend-of-a-friend just so she’d have some company.

It hadn’t quite worked. Between Callie’s schedule and her latest romance with some guy she’d met at the library, she was rarely home. It was only slightly better than living alone.

Callie was a news junkie—the serious stuff, not the pop-culture and human-interest fluff—and now Donovan’s face filled the screen as he droned on about something being unconstitutional. Callie was rapturously
hanging on every word, and Lorelei wondered if it was because anything unconstitutional was catnip for Loyola Law students or because the words were coming out of Donovan’s pretty face.

Lorelei wished she’d purchased a smaller, lower-quality TV, because the sight of Donovan in HD sent a jolt through her. She tried to brush it away and act casual as she continued to the kitchen and the coffeepot. She moved in slow motion, killing time, but Donovan was
still
talking—no surprise there, really; the man truly loved to hear himself talk. Finally she couldn’t stall any longer and had to go back out into the living room.

“No class today?” she asked as she took the other corner of the couch and settled in.

“The air-conditioning in the building is broken. They had to cancel classes.”

Lorelei nodded. The older buildings in New Orleans—those built before the invention of air-conditioning and designed for the heat—could sometimes be habitable, if not comfortable, in August, but not the newer buildings, with their low ceilings and windowless rooms.

“I’m meeting my study group at the library instead. What about you? Not going to the studio?”

“With Connor away, things are pretty slow at the moment. I’ll go in later and check messages and things, but a vacation for the boss is a vacation for the minions, as well.”

People might think that Connor had hired her as assistant and office manager for ConMan Studios out of pure nepotism—and that did have a little to do with it—but the truth was she was good at the job, much to everyone’s surprise. She’d finally started to earn a little respect; somehow her working for her brother-in-law impressed people
more than just working for her father, even though the positions were very similar.

And she liked it, too. Who wouldn’t want to be part of a rock star’s entourage? It was exciting, and the high-profile nature of the job meant people knew she was actually earning her keep.

“I’m kind of glad things will be slow. Being Vivi for the next three weeks is going to be crazy enough.”

Callie nodded, but she wasn’t really listening. She still had most of her attention on the TV—where, thankfully, Donovan was wrapping up. “Donovan St. James is right. The city is just asking for a major lawsuit.”

Lorelei didn’t bother to ask about what. “I’ve always wondered how someone becomes a pundit,” she said in what she hoped sounded like idle curiosity. “Is there a degree program for that? A Bachelor’s in Talking Headism?”

Callie shrugged. “I think you just have to make a name for yourself in politics or journalism to prove that you’re smart enough to have something sensible to say, and then show that you’re articulate enough to say it on TV.”

“Then how did Donovan St. James get anointed?”

Callie looked at her like she was crazy. “Because he’s freaking
brilliant
.”

“So
you
say.”

“No, so says the world. Haven’t you ever read his column?”

“Not since he destroyed the DuBois and Dillard families.”

“They brought that on themselves. Corruption tends to bite you in the butt like that when it’s uncovered.”

Lorelei had sympathy for her friends’ families. It had rocked everyone’s world. “But Donovan seemed to
enjoy
it. He certainly got a lot of attention out of their misery.”

“That
is
what got him attention initially. But in the
last three years that attention has grown because of his insightful analysis and dogged chasing of facts. When he comments on politics and issues, people listen. He’s syndicated in newspapers and on websites all over the country. That’s why he’s on TV all the time.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.” Hmm, it seemed she should have.

“Now you do. Should you decide to get more up-to-date on the rest of the world, his columns wouldn’t be a bad place to start. There’s an archive on his website. Good stuff there. I’ve even quoted him in some of my papers.”

Well, it seemed that Donovan had been out making a name for himself over the years and she’d been ignorant of the whole thing. Callie didn’t need to look so darn surprised. Just because she used to go to school with Donovan, it didn’t mean she was an expert on his life—or that she wanted to be.

Politics—and the blow-hard talking heads that covered it—gave her a headache. The news depressed her. She heard enough from Callie to keep her feeling at least as well-informed as the average citizen; she didn’t need to go looking for more than that.

Callie tossed the remote her way and grabbed her backpack. “I’m gone. Some of us might go grab some drinks after we’re done with study group. Want to come?”

“Thanks, but not tonight.” Her personal prohibition was still in place—the memory of Sunday morning was still too fresh even to consider breaking it.

“Call me if you change your mind. Bye.”

“Bye.”

A second later Callie reappeared. “Today’s paper.” She tossed it on the coffee table. “By the way, Donovan’s column runs in the editorial section—if you’re interested, that is.”

Once Callie had left, Lorelei unrolled the paper, flipped to the middle and pulled out what her grandmother and mother still called the “Wednesday Pages,” even though it was now a glossy, magazine-style insert about society’s doings. There, on the cover, was a full-color picture of Vivi and Connor on their way out of the cathedral. The caption promised a full write-up and more pictures inside. Lorelei flipped to the pages. There were some great shots of the guests going into the church, and a few from the reception. Most of them focused on the star-studded guest list of Connor’s friends in the music business, but there were a few photos of New Orleans’ business and society leaders. She had made the cut, too, in a photo of the bridesmaids and Mom and Dad with Vivi, right before they went into the church. Donovan was in a picture as well, standing in a group with some city councilmen and the heads of three charitable organizations Vivi worked with.

The picture of Donovan made her think of Callie’s parting shot, and she flipped to the editorial section to find his opinion of a bill being argued in Congress this week. It seemed well-written and impressive in its commentary, but she’d need a primer about the bill itself before she could form a cogent opinion.

Lord, even his writing had that condescending, sarcastic tone. Donovan had a hell of a chip on his shoulder.

She folded the newspaper decisively. Time to shake off this whole Donovan thing and move on. Forget it ever happened. She’d go to the studio, get some work done, maybe meet Callie for dinner, if not drinks. She needed to look over Vivi’s schedule, start preparing herself and firm up her plan of action. She would take center stage tomorrow. Her first big appearance in her new temporary role.

Butterflies battered her insides. It was stage fright—but not because she would be center stage. This was make
or break time. If she screwed this up, she’d only prove to everyone that she really was a flaky screw-up, an airhead with only her trust fund going for her. But if it went well … She sighed. If it went well she’d be on her way—not just “the other LaBlanc girl” anymore. The last six months had been building toward this moment, and the pressure was doing bad things to her.

It was just one more reason why she needed to forget about what happened with Donovan and focus on what was important. Staying busy was a very good idea; it would give her mind something to think about other than Donovan, and soon enough she’d be past this whole embarrassing situation.

She picked up her coffee cup and the society section again, intending to set it aside for Vivi, when her own name caught her eye.

St. James Media looked like any average office building from the outside, but within the company the building
was called “Whiz Castle.” It had been built on the success of an infomercial for the unfortunately named Toilet Whiz, which had taken the company from struggling to superstar nearly overnight and made them the largest direct response and infomercial production company in the South. His father had an original Toilet Whiz framed and hanging outside Studio One in a place of honor.

The sight still made Donovan laugh every time he passed it. Part of Donovan’s success as a TV personality came from the fact he always seemed to be amused about something when the cameras rolled; only a few people knew it was because he’d just passed a framed Toilet Whiz.

Donovan had an office right down the hall from his father’s, but he rarely used it. He wasn’t a part of the business—infomercials had given him a comfortable checking-account balance and paid his college tuition, but he wasn’t interested in the actual production of them—but since his siblings had offices in the building Dad had given him one, too.

He could have used it, but he far preferred to work in his own space, where there were fewer distractions and his tendency to work odd hours went unquestioned. Because he was so rarely there, his office had a sterile, unlived-in feeling. It was expertly and expensively decorated, and it gave him a place to hang plaques and pictures and things, but he couldn’t actually work in there.

He was using the studios more often these days, though, as his TV appearance schedule picked up. Their facilities and staff were truly top-notch, and he’d found he rather liked using the family’s home field. His brothers had even expanded the studio’s capabilities, and St. James Media was getting traffic from a lot of famous faces these days.

Maybe he
had
contributed something to the family business, after all.

However, it was proving quite handy to have the office to use as a place to drop off his stuff and put on a tie before he went on air. Unknotting the noose around his neck, he headed back toward his office, ready to go home.

His father’s secretary followed him down the long hallway, talking a mile a minute, and he listened with half an ear. As he opened his office door and saw Lorelei sitting on the low sofa under the window, he wished he’d paid a bit more attention.

How had she known he’d be here?

He closed the door behind him. “Lorelei. This is … unexpected.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Oh, really?” Sarcasm dripped off her words.

“Yeah. Your ‘have a nice life’ statement kind of implied you wouldn’t be dropping by to chat.”

“That was before we made the newspaper.”

“We?”

“Yes,
we
.” She sounded downright irritated about it.

“When? For what?”

“This morning. In the write-up about the wedding.”

“And you came by to tell me about it?”