Page 1 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis
Christian
One year earlier
The elevator climbedto the twentieth floor, and the ride gave me time to think of my motives. One of the lawyers in my building – Gary Stark – had recommended Naomi Blackford’s service when the need to have a woman of an affluent nature on my arm arose.
“Executive companion services,”he’d called it.“It’s nothing questionable, just sophisticated women who know how to handle themselves at corporate events.”
Still, as I adjusted my Armani cufflinks and checked my Patek Philippe, I wondered what the hell I was doing. I’d built my career on reading people, handling negotiations, and commanding rooms full of opposing counsel. Yet here I was, about to meet a woman whose job was to be the perfect date for hire. Was I pathetic? I was still musing over that question when the elevator chimed, and the doors opened to reveal suite 2015. I knocked twice and waited patiently. Time seemed to move slow when the light blinked green above the handle.
“Mr. Valentine?” The voice through the speaker on the door held deep notes of a sexy, smooth, feminine drawl, yet professional. Warmth coated my skin, and a light tingle ran down my earlobe and throat.
“That’s me.”
The door opened, and every coherent thought I’d ever had evaporated.
She was stunning, and her beauty made my heart forget how to expand properly. Shoulder-length black hair framed a face that belonged in Renaissance paintings, and the midnight blue dress she wore hugged every curve of what could only be described as a perfect hourglass figure. When she looked up at me with those intelligent dark feline eyes, the shift in my chest gave me pause.
“Mr. Valentine.” She extended a perfectly manicured hand. “Naomi Blackford.”
I took her hand, surprised by the firmness of her grip. “Christian. It’s nice to meet you in person, and since we’re supposed to convince people we’re dating, you can drop the formalities.”
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and I was thankful that I couldn’t tell if it was a performance or genuine, which meant she was good at her job.
“Of course. Shall we discuss the evening’s expectations?”
“I was hoping we could start with you telling me if that’s your real smile or your professional one.”
Her eyebrows rose slightly. “Excuse me?”
“The smile. I’m trying to figure out if you’re naturally this composed or if it’s part of the service.”
She studied me for a moment, then her expression shifted—softer, more authentic. “That depends on whether you’re naturally this direct or if it’s part of your charm offensive.”
I laughed, surprised by her quick wit. “Touché. Should I take that as a challenge?”
“You can take it however you’d like, Mr. Valentine.”
“Christian,” I corrected. “And I think I’d like to take it as the beginning of an interesting evening.”
We walked to the elevator, and I watched her move. She was confident, her head held high, the twist in her hips natural and arousing without trying. She bore no nervous energy, didn’t fidget with her clutch or check her reflection. She was complete self-possession personified.
“So,” I said as the elevator descended, “tell me what I need to know about playing your boyfriend for the evening.”
“The key is to act like you actually enjoy my company.”
“That shouldn’t be difficult.”
She glanced at me sideways. “You say that now.”
“Are you suggesting you’re not enjoyable company?”
“I’m suggesting you don’t know me well enough to make that determination.”
Outside, I opened the car door for her, waiting until she’d settled into the passenger seat of my Maserati before walking around to the driver’s side. “Somehow, I think you’ll be the perfect companion, Naomi.”
She stared at me and I at her as I started the engine. She examined the interior—the leather seats, the technology panel, the attention to detail that had drawn me to this particular car.
“Impressed?” I asked.
