Head Over High Heels (A Glamorous Life Novel Book 2)

PROLOGUE

Paris, France

March

Irina Jeffries groaned as she lifted her eyelids. Opening them was like a goddamned strength training exercise. Ignoring the thundering in her head, she gradually took in her surroundings and then did a double take. She didn’t recognize the burgundy drapes, the antique cherry dresser, or the ceiling fan spinning lazily on its axis, tossing shafts of morning light about the room.

Where the hell am I? she asked no one. And better yet, what the hell had happened to her?

Panic set in as she placed her hands on the fur comforter and tried to push herself up. Achy tremors shot through her body. Fur comforter? Knotted muscles screamed out like they’d had the workout of their life. She jerked back the sheet and realized she was completely naked in a strange bed, save for a six-strand pearl necklace and a long mink coat.

How did she get here?

Whose room was this?

Her heart rate tripled and pounded out a staccato beat in her ears. She clutched the sides of the expensive pelt and alarms went off in her head. She plunged her fingers into her messy hair and scratched at her pounding scalp.

God...what have I done?

You know exactly what you’ve done, her brain reprimanded. You snorted cocaine and lost control.

Not only that, she’d done two more lines of the shit after the fashion show, before heading to the after parties. She’d been in a completely altered state, somewhere outside of her own body. Watching. Unable to stop her actions. It had felt fan-freaking-tastic at the time; now she felt like death-on-a-cracker. She needed to wise up and comprehend where she was and what was going on. Most of all, she had to figure out how to fix her life that was spiraling out of control.

She scrambled out of the bed and nearly tripped on her high heels discarded on the floor. She was afraid to call out for fear someone else was in this apartment with her. How could she have been so foolish? She touched herself between her legs, testing to see if she’d gone too far last night. Her fingers skittered over her cleanly-shaved mound and she noted, thankfully, that she didn’t have that just-had-sex feeling. How could she be sure, though? The last thing she remembered about last night was drinking expensive French champagne and someone telling her it wouldn’t mix well with her buzz.

No shit, Sherlock.

She moved around and rummaged through papers on the nearby desk, looking for an address, a clue, anything to tell her where she was. A French newspaper didn’t reveal any more than the date. She desperately clasped the coat around her, covering her bare breasts in case anyone did walk in.

A glance back at the bed caused nausea to roil within her stomach. Had she slept alone? Looking at the extra indentation, she feared the answer was a definitive no.

What have I done? she repeated, squeezing her eyes tightly to keep the mounting tears from falling. But they won out over her resolve and fell, hot and salty, onto her cheeks.

She was glad her father was long dead. He would have been mortally ashamed of her if he could see her now. See what she’d become. She had to figure out where she was, get the hell out of here, and regain some control on her life.

But how?

On the other side of the door, she could make out a muted male voice talking on the phone. She dove down at the end of the bed, horrified that she’d ended up taking a tumble in a stranger’s room. This was so not like her! She had to find a way out, but her only exit was through that door.

Her thoughts were muddled, scattered like random, unknown stars in the galaxy. She needed someone to tell her what to do. Someone a hell of a lot smarter than she’d turned out to be.

She saw her purse sitting on a footstool at the end of the bed. At least she’d had enough sense to have her identification and money with her. She dug out her iPhone and scrolled her finger across the screen, impatiently shifting from foot to foot as it searched for service.

Turning to the window, she snatched the blind up as high as it would go. Sunlight flooded the room and a startled pigeon quickly sprung from its resting place on the sill. An accordion sounded out in the distance. Right… she was in Paris for the fashion show. The career that had taken her away from everything she loved and changed her into this… monster.

Gripping her phone, she dialed the first number on her list of Favorites in her contacts. It was the person she trusted above all others. Her best friend. The one who could set her back on a steadier course.

On the third ring, a groggy voice a continent away answered. Hola?

Dread overtook her and she could no longer control her raging emotions. Fernanda! Jesus, God. I’m so sorry to call you—

Ira? Chica? It’s two a.m. here in Miami. What’s wrong?

Fernanda, Ira whispered, choking back her sob. She swallowed hard and said the words that summed it all up. I’ve really fucked up good this time…

CHAPTER ONE

Miami Beach, Florida

December, three months earlier

Half naked, chilled to the bone, and posing for the camera wasn’t exactly Irina Jeffries’ ideal way to spend a December afternoon.

But it was South Beach and the whipping wind wasn’t as cruel as it could’ve been against her bare skin. She shouldn’t complain. She was getting five hundred smackers just for standing there smiling into the lens. Nice scratch.

Her taut nipples were so hard she could probably pound nails into concrete. She felt them stretching against the white fabric of her string bikini. Nearby, she could see that the client was drooling over how the natural effect would pull people into the final picture.

Gorgeous! Perfect. Now turn this way, the photographer said to her as his production assistant adjusted the reflective screen.

She did as instructed, crossing her hands over her barely-clad body and tilting her head just so. Her facial muscles ached from over-extended grins and pensive pouts. Suddenly, her attention was drawn skyward, though, as a jumbo jet rumbled and roared overhead. An American Airways plane leaving Miami International, bound for who knew where.

What’s wrong, love? Your eyes are a million miles away, the photographer noted.

Sorry. The airplane distracted me. My father used to fly for that carrier. She licked her lips, swallowed the heartache, and smiled again. Her despondency could wait until later. She had a job to do. And money to make.

Fantastic. That’s it. One more. Excellent. The photographer tossed his camera to his assistant and walked toward her. You were phenomenal. Amazing, Irina. The best I’ve worked with.

She tossed her hair and beamed a smile at him. Thanks so much.

She reached for the terry cloth robe hanging on the back of a director’s chair and scooted to the makeshift dressing room. Modeling was a true rush, but she didn’t want to be late for her real job. Let me know if you can use me again, Phillip, she said to the photographer.

You know I will, babe.

Modeling gave her bank account the extra shot of adrenalin she so needed to get by. But, it was only part-time. She wished she could get more gigs like the one today. It was an ad for a new condo development at the end of Ocean Drive. Maybe if she could sign with an agent, things would be different. This was Miami, though; a cut-throat market with very little room for newcomers who didn’t have connections. For now, she’d settle on getting jobs via word of mouth.

Sad to say, but money was way too important. Making it, saving it, and using it to pay for her Miami Beach lifestyle. Money kept her in the city she loved, never having to depend on the stepmother and stepbrothers in Cincy she’d never quite figured out how to love.

Chucking the stupidity of her formative years aside, she dressed quickly in her striped top and short-shorts. Cutting behind the lighting fixtures and carefully weaving through the electrical wires criss-crossed on the sand, she glanced down at her phone to check the time. She was cutting it close, but she’d make it to the hotel on time.

As she padded up to the sidewalk, her cell phone trilled out the latest Pitbull rap. She slid her finger along the touch screen to answer while she made her way through the clumps of people headed toward Ocean Drive. It was in season and the peninsula was filled with snowbirds from New England and Canada—readily distinguished by their pasty white skin—escaping the Alberta Clippers and Nor’easters, as well as Europeans seeking out the warmer climates and affordable vacation spots. People came here to Miami Beach for the night life, the cranking music, the lifestyle, and the sex. Beautiful people abounded, unabashed in their sexuality and desire to have a good time at all costs.

Talk to me, she said into the phone.

Hey, Ira! Chica! she heard her roommate say.

Her father had dubbed her with the nickname Ira when she was a little girl. He’d thought Irina was too formal for his little tomboy. Even though he was no longer with her, the moniker had stuck throughout her twenty-five years even though she was a true girly-girl now.

Fernanda, where are you? Ira dodged two people on bicycles and stepped back onto the walkway.

I just got home from doing my paperwork for the Miss South Beach contest. Can you believe that little gutter snipe Kimmy Cains is in it?

Ira laughed. You’ve beaten her before. Don’t sweat it, Fernanda.

Her roommate continued. There are seventeen contestants, but I think I can take them. I’ve got to work twice as hard as the rest of them to wow the judges.

You’ll win. You always do, Ms. Lopez.

I’m not sleeping with anyone to get the crown.

That doesn’t really happen, does it?

Fernanda snorted. You’d be surprised.

Ira tripped and tried not to run over an elderly couple creepy-crawling in front of her with lawn chairs and a plastic beach umbrella. If they didn’t clear a path for her, she’d have to double-time it to get to the hotel in time to start her shift.

She gripped the phone tighter and heard Fernanda’s sharp Spanish accent. They’re only giving us three minutes for the talent competition. I’m going to have to cut a verse out of my song.

You can do it. Make it work.

Fernanda sighed into the phone and changed the subject. Did you get passes for the show at Eden’s Garden tonight?

Ira tossed her head from side to side, watching haphazardly where she was rushing along. It took some finagling, but I managed to snag a few.

This wasn’t just any show. It was a fashion show! Beautifully dressed and highly styled women prancing on the runway, showing off the latest designs.

Dammit, I want to be up there tonight!

Fantastic! Fernanda shouted out.

Ira ran her fingers through her long, straight, blonde hair, which was irritating the back of her neck and making her feel sticky all over. Too much hairspray leftover from the photo shoot. I’ll be working until ten tending bar since Jessica’s on vacation. And, I’ve got to train the new guy. She exhausted her breath. Why did Marcus always make her handle the rookies?

That new guy you’re complaining about is my darling cousin, Pablo, Fernanda said.

Parents with a monstrous baby stroller cut Ira off and she had to slide up onto the grassy hill. A cousin you haven’t seen since you were what... five? Twenty years apart doesn’t make him a ‘darling’ anything, she kidded her friend.

I’m not twenty five yet! That’s the kiss of death in the beauty pageant world. You know what that means to me, Fernanda said with a bit of fanaticism in her voice.

Ira rolled her eyes. Geez, I’m sorry. I know twenty-five’s the dead-end for an aspiring beauty queen.

This is my last shot at the state title. I want it so badly. It’s now or never.

A smile broke out over Ira’s face. Twenty-five, too old? Leave it to the beauty world to tell a woman she’s over the hill when she hits her first quarter of a century mark. That was why Ira knew she’d never really make it in modeling. At twenty-five, she was probably considered ancient. You had to get into this business in your teens, pay your dues, and work your way up to Victoria’s Secret model status. You’ll do it. This is your year. I feel it, she reassured Fernanda. I’ll be there cheering you on.

Thanks, chica. Hey, I meant to tell you—

Hold on a sec.

Ira quickly assessed the traffic migration and figured she could make it across Ocean Drive in plenty of time before the slow-moving, white Hummer limousine got to her. She took a step off the curb into the crosswalk when all of a sudden a silver Vespa streaked out of nowhere and almost ran her down. At the same time she thought to step back, a sturdy arm wrapped around her middle and hauled her up to the curb.

Son of a—

Ciao! the driver shouted at her and waved.

You idiot!

Are you all right? a deep voice behind her asked.

Ira stuck the phone back to her ear. Hold on! She turned and looked up into the clearest set of green eyes she’d ever seen in her life. Orbs that were set against rich, darkly tanned skin. Involuntarily, she salivated and her insides tightened as if they had a mind of their own.

Well, hello there.

The sexy guy’s initial concern morphed into a smile. Good thing I was here to save you.

Immediately, Ira took a defensive pose and wrenched his arm off her waist. She’d been taking care of herself since she was twelve years old. No one rescued her, no matter how fine he was. I believe I saved myself, thankyouverymuch.

He laughed and stepped into the crosswalk next to her. Have it your way, beautiful.

He was beautiful, she thought. And he knew it. She knew just by looking at him that he was the type of man who could melt off a woman’s entire wardrobe with one wink of his eye, making her come instantly. Ira felt herself reacting from the core of her womanhood, shooting desire for this handsome stranger all the way down to her toes. She shook her head and realized this impromptu fantasy was courtesy of not getting any in a long time.

She started to speak into the phone again, but paused and said, Thanks, though. No reason to be rude to someone so gorgeous. She tossed her hair and continued along her way.

My pleasure. Any time, he called out to her.

Ira nearly had to fan herself from the contact. The man blended in well with the scenery of Miami Beach. Tanned. Confident. Sexy as hell. And from the looks of his fitted jeans, he was probably hung like a stallion. Seriously, pants like that should be illegal. She flashed him one last, parting smile and faded into the jam-packed sidewalk.

Chica! What the hell is going on? Fernanda’s insistent voice bleated out from the phone.

Nothing, Ira said. Just flirting with some hunk on the street.

Fernanda’s laugh reverberated over the phone. That doesn’t sound like you.

She thought for a moment and shrugged, even though Fernanda couldn’t see the action. It’s almost a new year. Why not a new me?

To hell with her seasonal depression. Ira wouldn’t let her recurrent melancholy mess with her and control her emotions any longer. She was a big girl, on her own, and she was out to prove Ira Jeffries was in charge of her future. The turn of the calendar would definitely be a good, swift kick in the ass. Hey, I gotta get going. Training the new guy, remember?

I’m told he’s gorgeous, Fernanda added.

All Latin men are good-looking. Miami’s full of them, Ira retorted. Case in point of her rescuer from moments ago who’d disappeared into the sea of people traversing Ocean Drive. Call me later so we can meet up.

It was time to get to work.

*****

Fernanda checked the clock as she clicked off her phone. She had three hours before reporting for her shift at Pearl South Beach and Champagne Lounge. She had enough time to get in a quick run, call her vocal coach, and visit Magdalene’s boutique to buy new shoes for the pageant. She’d need time to properly break them in and scuff up the bottoms so she wouldn’t bust her ass on the slick stage.

She slipped from the high-rise condominium she shared with Ira via the glass elevator and security-guarded lobby out onto the bustling streets of South Beach where she broke into a jog headed toward the beach.

Three pounds to lose. You can do it.

She’d eaten nothing today but a salad—no dressing, of course—and knew if she put the pedal to the metal, she’d be in top shape for the Miss South Beach pageant. She wasn’t a diet freak, anorexic, or bulimic, but she did have to watch her weight. Her body was her corporation and she had to keep the company looking good.

She wished she were more like Ira when it came to food. That girl could eat anything and it wouldn’t dare show on her traffic-stopping Glamazon figure. Fernanda’s Hispanic heritage leaned more toward curvy hips and ample bosom, so she worked hard to keep her figure sleek and trim. No one wanted a beauty queen with cottage cheese thighs. To her knowledge, there weren’t any miracle creams on the market to cover up that particular imperfection.

Five miles a day was what did it.

She had to stop visiting her parents and her Lita, though. It seemed as though they were fattening her up for the Thanksgiving kill. Then again, family meant food. The two went hand in hand.

You don’t eat, my Fernanda, her Lita would tell her.

Sure, she ate, but she couldn’t chow down on empanadas, ham croquettes, and fried plantains—maduros—every day and still expect to slip into her slinky, sparkly pageant gown. Let alone her work dress.

Being a champagne waitress at Pearl was a way of life. A style statement. Fernanda always had to look her best so she could serve the high-priced clientele. Hip-hop moguls, professional athletes, movie stars, and models. They came to Miami Beach in droves and expected high-class treatment. Fernanda was constantly on display. She sold the idea of beauty, glamor, and sex along with expensive champagne. Not that she was a prostitute or anything. Far from it. Neither was she a tease. She was a woman on a mission and no one—not even a gorgeous guy with bedroom eyes promising the hook up of a lifetime—was going to get in her way. Her job gave her exposure to the rich and famous of Miami Beach who crossed inside the velvet rope of the fashionable nightclub.

Fernanda had heard a rumor that the Lavitra-Ann Mordova had a reservation for an early dinner tonight at the restaurant, so she’d signed up for extra hours in order to meet the local socialite. She hoped to seek the well-known philanthropist’s advice for the upcoming beauty contest. After all, the on-the-upside-of-fifty Lavitra-Ann was a former Miss Miami.

Huffing and puffing from her workout, Fernanda swung her arms by her side as perspiration trickled profusely down her back and between her full breasts—natural, no silicone or saline for her. The perspiration was worth it, though. The results would be stunning.

This was it.

Her final shot.

Do or die.

Now or never and all of those other catch phrases that ran through her mind like flashcards. She kicked up sand and dug her sneakers in harder, working her muscles and making her body sweat.

Sweating now was a good thing, but on the stage, in front of the judges, it was a killer. No one wanted to see a drenched beauty queen. It was the one thing she was obsessively self-conscious about because somehow, she’d developed hyperhidrosis—excessive sweating—and nothing worked to combat it. She’d tried prescription-strength deodorants, salt tablets, and even Valium. But all it did was make her sleepy. No, she had to do something drastic to defeat the condition.

And Lavitra-Ann Mordova was just the person to help.

*****

Ira made her way down 9th to Collins Avenue and The Eleanor. A restored art deco masterpiece from the early 20s, the vibrant yellow hotel stood nestled amongst swaying Florida palms. Its sister hotel, The Buckley, sat directly across the street in all of its gray and white splendor. The Buckley’s porch was packed with patrons enjoying a late afternoon lunch. Ira waved at one of the waitresses as she bounded across the street to The Eleanor.

Both hotels had just recently been purchased by a wine mogul out in California, Jack Wandrisco and his new wife, Hale, a bestselling author, who’d given a pretty penny to fix the place up and turn it into a really chic stay for singles, couples, and partiers. Just the crowd that South Beach drew on a regular basis.

You’re late, Marcus Torres snapped the minute she stepped up onto The Eleanor’s Italian tiled veranda. He carried a walkie-talkie and cell phone clipped to his black Armani belt, making him look like a designer gunslinger. With the flick of a finger, he touched the ever-present earpiece and proceeded to bitch at a deafening volume.

Are you talking to me? Ira asked, perplexed. She couldn’t be late. It wasn’t in the cards.

Marcus covered the small microphone portion of the black cord and air-kissed her. No, my darlin’, I’m talking to the liquor store. Their goddamned truck was supposed to make a delivery an hour ago. You, my queen, are on time, as per usual.

Ira patted his prematurely balding head and strode past him into the hotel. A tiny wisp of a man, Marcus had plenty to manage with the two hotels and coordinating the details for the evening’s happy hour. From six until ten, seven days a week, The Eleanor hosted guests from both hotels to free drinks, samples of wine from the Wandrisco vineyards, and appetizers. Or happy-tizers as Ira called them.

She crossed the lobby, reminiscent of Tuscany with its rich orange walls, textured brown tiles, and white leather couches. She’d seen plenty of action happening on those couches in her time here from a Hollywood D-lister giving out blow jobs to hip-hop guys to a re-elected and vocal conservative Washington politician entertaining his extremely underage mistress. It was Miami Beach, though, the Vegas of the South. What happened at The Eleanor stayed at The Eleanor.

Ira stepped over some luggage piled up in the middle of the floor and moved to take her place behind the counter. Work was a good thing. Mundane. Routine. Nothing as exciting as her recent photo shoot—or even the brush with the Vespa and the hot stud on the street. But hard work paid the bills. She lived life according to her own rules. Not her stepmother’s antiquated way of life; not anyone’s.

Her co-worker, Dauphine Harris, was on the phone, so Ira slipped by and chucked her bag into the back office.

The jerk in room 409 checked out this morning, Dauphine said, when Ira emerged. The soft Bahamian beauty stretched her thin arms over her head and groaned. He complained about everything. Didn’t like the free breakfast, his air conditioner was too loud, the free Wi-Fi connection sucked, and the shower leaked. Honestly, amiga.

Aren’t showers supposed to have water coming out of them? Ira kidded.

Thank you! Dauphine said with a deep laugh.

Ira rubbed her friend’s back. I hope you killed him with kindness. You never know when he might be back… and without that Travelocity discount next time.

She reached under the desk and pulled papers off the printer that Dauphine had printed out from e-mails sent to the hotel. Ah, more New Year’s Eve announcements. Billboard Live, Mansion, and Tantra. They still have room?

Oh, they’ll sell out. Dauphine snagged the annoying, blaring telephone. The Eleanor. How may I direct your call? Dauphine pressed a couple of buttons and then turned to Ira. So how was your shoot?

Pretty good. The ad should be out next month.

Dauphine nodded. I can’t wait until I can say, ‘I knew Ira Jeffries before she was famous.’

Oh stop it!

Ira turned and input her password into the computer, allowing her access to The Eleanor’s reservation database. Feeling the anvil of pain and despair fall on her heart, she inwardly cursed the date on the bottom of the screen—December 27th. But, she breathed through the unease in her throat that was threatening to suffocate her.

Don’t think about it. He’s gone.

Focusing on work, Ira knew the hotel would sell out as stragglers came in seeking haven from the busy end-of-December evenings. Since Marcus was heading to the Big Apple for New Year’s Eve, Ira was in charge. It was a chance to prove herself even more. Who knew… maybe a pay raise would eventually come out of it? The more money, the better.

Where’s the pool? a guest armed with towels and tanning lotion asked.

She smiled because she’d heard this question a thousand times. We don’t have one.

An incredulous look took over the man’s face. Why not?

Here came the same old answer. Because the Atlantic Ocean is about five hundred yards that way. The man laughed and headed out the door.

Even in her misery, Ira loved messing with people. The walkie-talkie next to the phone buzzed with Marcus’s shrill voice and knocked her out of her funk. Irina. Come in, baby cakes.

She clicked the small device. Yeah, Marcus.

When is Fernanda’s cousin coming in?

The new guy? He should be here soon. She checked the schedule and saw Pablo Andrews penciled in on the four until eleven shift, the same as her.

You’re all set to show him the ropes? Marcus asked.

Yeah, sure.

Great, love. The delivery truck’s here. They’ll be bringing the order in and then I’m splitting. You’re in charge.

Two bulky, sweaty men appeared in the back hallway with cases of vodka, gin, rum, and various mixers at the same time a large group wanted to check into their rooms.

I’ll deal with the liquor order and you handle these guys, Ira said to Dauphine.

After she signed off on the delivery and stashed the bottles into the bar area, Ira stood up and tugged at her striped top that was riding dangerously low for any wandering eyes that might be copping a look at her breasts.

4:15 p.m. Where the hell was the new guy? Why had she let Fernanda talk her into convincing Marcus to hire her cousin sight unseen? She shouldn’t have put herself out on a limb for the family of her friend. But the hotel needed an extra set of hands right now and Fernanda had been ever so grateful.

Ira felt a gentle pull on her elbow as she made her way through the crowd back to the check-in desk. Did anyone ever tell you that you could be a model? a deep male voice asked.

Ira turned, ready to tell whoever this was that a) that was one of the oldest lines in the book (especially in South Beach where beauty was the norm, not the exception) or b) yes, she was a model, Sherlock.

But she didn’t say anything. She just stared up.

Up, up, up into those dazzling green eyes from before.

It was her rescuer from Ocean Drive.

CHAPTER TWO

Ira sucked in a deep breath at the sight of the man in front of her. On the street earlier, she’d been in a hurry and hadn’t fully taken in the details of him. Now, she noted he was trim, athletic, and his jet-black hair was closely cropped. A lazy, liquid sensation flooded her insides, filling her womb with a dangerous and insatiable desire to throw him down on the white leather couch and become one of The Eleanor’s legendary stories.

That wasn’t going to happen, though. Especially today of all days.

Trying to gather her thoughts—and her wits about her—Ira noticed he wore a silver earring in his left ear. Mentally she heard the mocking chant Marcus would sing whenever a hot guy walked by: left is right, right is wrong. Although, she wasn’t sure this was even correct anymore. It didn’t matter. This guy was straight. Straight and gorgeous. She had to swallow deeply before she could find the words to speak.

Attitude, Ira.

Did you follow me here?

He scratched his chin with his thumb and forefinger. She noticed that his smooth skin was the color of the café con leche she treated herself to most mornings down the street at the News Cafe. He was definitely of Hispanic descent, but the astonishing green eyes threw her for a loop.

No, nothing like that, he said with a smirk. It’s all quite a coincidence, I assure you.

Um-hmm. She gazed at him curiously. So, would you like a room?

Only if you’ll join me in it, he said without hesitation.

Oh, he’s a fresh one.

And she liked it. Words backed up in her dry throat as she tried to conjure up an equally impressive come-on, or at least a comeback.

You think you’re entitled to a reward for saving me from that Vespa? Men had blatantly hit on her before, but she’d never had one follow her to work like a lost puppy.

What did you have in mind?

Her first thought was to strip him naked and eat him alive like a delicious chocolate bar. But that wasn’t like her at all. What was happening to her today? Had she been sprayed with pheromones at her photo shoot? Sorry, but I have a new employee starting soon. No time for fun… or games. She lifted her eyebrow suggestively at the end of the sentence.

My loss, cariña. He stood in front of her and dug his hands into the pockets of his tan cargo pants. She didn’t dare stare at his crotch. Was he experiencing the same sensations as her, having to adjust himself for comfort? Besides, he smiled wickedly like he knew something and she didn’t. So, you’re training someone today?

Yes, the new guy. He was supposed to be here by now, she said, looking around the lobby.

He blocked her view, toying with her with his amazing physique.

Oh. Well, I really should get back to—

Your new guy’s here.

He is?

He’s me.

You’re who? Ira asked, staring at the man before her.

Pablo. Pablo Andrews. You were expecting me?

Holy Mother of God.

Ira felt her knees give way slightly in her surprised state. Every fiber in her being was on high alert and her palms itched to reach out and pull him toward her for some immediate, illicit naughtiness. So this was Fernanda’s cousin, huh? Yum-yum. Her stomach lurched treacherously, reminding her how long it had been since she’d had the candy knocked out of her piñata. She swallowed hard and got down to business. No time for tomfoolery. She needed to get a grip on this situation and not a grip on him. I’m Ira. We should get to it.

He nodded approvingly and smiled. Whatever you say, bonita.

I mean work get to work. Geesh! She blinked twice and returned to her proper role. Manager with trainee. No time for silliness...or flirtation no matter what he looked like. Right. Well, welcome to The Eleanor. We’re swamped. She swept her hand to indicate the guests checking in.

You don’t waste any time. Pablo lowered his brows in a way-too-sexy manner that made her skin tingle like thousands of ants were crawling over her, stimulating each single atom of her body’s make up.

She mentally flipped herself off. Instant attraction aside, this was someone she’d be working with regularly. Her personal rule was no hanky-panky with co-workers. What a big disappointment, too. This was a live one. He was Fernanda’s cousin, though. Besides, relationships had never been her thing. So what? Pablo had semi-thwarted a collision with a Vespa, but that was no reason to go weak-kneed. He was intriguing enough, although she refused to be distracted by his charm, grace, and sex appeal.

What can I say? Life in a hotel. She snagged the maintenance requests clipboard and grabbed a pen. Why don’t you shadow me while I check on these items?

I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth, gorgeous, Pablo said with a smile.

Ira admired his confidence. She gestured to her harried co-worker finishing up with the last of the group. Pablo Andrews, meet Dauphine Harris. She’ll show you the reservation system when we get back. She turned to her friend. Can you handle things for now?

Dauphine shook Pablo’s outstretched hand. Everything’s fine. The intern’s coming on, so I’ll page her if I need anything.

This way, Ira said to Pablo. He obeyed, following her down the first floor corridor.

So, you’re Fernie’s roommate? he said when they made their way into Room 115 to check on an air conditioner filter.

Ira stopped short of the door and chuckled. Fernie? Dude, I wouldn’t call her that, if I were you. She’s far from a Fernie. When was the last time you saw her?

Let’s see, it was at a family reunion. My father brought us back from Spain to visit my mom’s cousins. I was— he looked up and thought about it. —ten years old. So, Fernie was four or five. Gangly little thing with kinky hair and crooked teeth.

Ira quickly did the math to calculate his age as thirty and then snickered at the thought of her perfectly coifed, exquisitely beautiful roommate. Well, you’re in for a shock, buck-o.

Pablo, he said, correcting her with his dazzling white smile.

Ira opened the door to the freshly made room. A more appropriate term for her nowadays would be ‘drop-dead gorgeous.’ Fernanda’s a professional beauty queen.

He followed her inside the room. Is that a career?

It is for her. She’s been vying for the Miss United States title since our sorority put her up for Miss University of Miami freshman year. Ira leaned down to inspect the cooling unit. What you want to do is verify that the maintenance request was completed. Don, that’s our Mr. Fix It, changed the filter, so you just initial right here.

Although she was five-eleven, Pablo towered above her by nearly three inches as she maneuvered the pen and clicked off her initials. She breathed deeply and took in the scent of his Caroline Herrera for Men. She recognized it immediately from the display she often passed in Magdalena’s shop. Mmm... pricey.

He was too close and was wreaking havoc on her insides with the tsunami-like waves of desire that kept toppling over her, threatening to drown her in his essence. She stepped back as if burned. He didn’t flinch.

And are you a beauty queen as well? he asked.

She smiled crookedly and laughed at his question. Me? No. Rhinestones and sequins aren’t for me. I’m more of a ready-to-wear gal.

Sorry?

No, I’m sorry. Bad gag. You had it right before with your lousy come-on. I do some local modeling. She motioned her head for the door and he tagged along dutifully. Next we need to check out the shower in Room 109. This way.

It wasn’t a lousy come-on, he said confidently. It was an honest one. You certainly have the body for modeling. And many other things… I’m sure.

Coming from another employee, the comment might have bordered on sexual harassment, but Pablo was European and probably didn’t concern himself with general United States labor laws. Then again, Ira wouldn’t exactly call a government agency on him since she secretly liked it. Dammit, she liked him. Why? She had to take control. Can we focus on work, please?

Using the master