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  She felt her cheeks flush red. “Thank you. But seriously, my show is less than a year old. It’s hard to feel like I belong here. It’s all just so…surreal.”

  “Well, you do, and clearly the powers that be for Stepping Up see that, too.”

  “Yeah, well, did I mention that I was the assistant casting director who found Rick the job as host for Stepping Up? And yes, I mean Rick—as in the guest who used my broken shoe as fodder on your show.”

  His eyes went wide. “You’re freaking kidding me.”

  “Nope,” she said. “I got him the job, and still he used me. That’s what really got to me about the whole thing, I think.”

  “Funny,” he said. “I kind of thought it had something to do with you maybe thinking that we had a connection that you then questioned. I know I thought we had a connection.”

  She inhaled, taken off guard. She had. God, had she ever. She liked him. Too much. She still did.

  “Food’s here,” the attendant said, sparing her from a reply.

  Darla sat up, quick to break eye contact with Blake, not sure what she was feeling right now. Alcohol, an empty stomach and an airplane. She was not in a position to be making decisions about men, especially this one.

  It wasn’t as if her track record was stellar even on her best day, and this wasn’t one of them. She’d dated one player after another since moving to New York, even before her show, until she was so afraid of becoming jaded, she’d simply stopped dating. There was just something about Blake, something that made her want to try again, and that scared her because it had hurt when she’d thought he’d used her for ratings. Hurt more than it should have, which told her that he could possibly break her heart. Which was why she had to get control of the situation, and of herself.

  So as soon as she and Blake had plates in front of them, she quickly picked up the conversation in comfortable territory. “Back to Stepping Up,” she said. “I not only helped them find Rick, I also did some pre-screening of the dancers for the first season, including three that made the top ten. That’s how this came about, how I got the job offer to be a judge.”

  “And now you’re going to be working with Rick.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Now I get to work with that jerk.”

  He laughed. “I agree. He’s a jerk. And I told him so after my show.”

  “So did I,” she admitted with a smile.

  “So you took his call but not mine?”

  “He didn’t call,” she said, stabbing an egg with her fork. “I called him.”

  “But you wouldn’t talk to me?”

  “No,” she said. “I wouldn’t talk to you.”

  “I would have gladly let you call me a jerk to have the chance to explain what had happened.”

  And she would have let him explain, and would have forgiven him. Like she was now. The conversation continued, and more and more she laughed and relaxed. When finally their plates were gone, she had changed her tune about Blake, about where this was—or was not—going. They had one night and then she’d be flying from city to city, absorbed in filming the reality show. It wasn’t as if this attraction could become anything more serious. There were really only two ways this flight could end: Darla in her room alone, or Darla in her room with Blake.

  Tomorrow would be the same no matter what—they would be hundreds of miles apart. She wanted him. She wanted him like no other that she could ever remember. And she wasn’t letting anything—including too many mimosas—get in her way. He might be a mirage, the wrong man once again hidden beneath hot, sexy perfection. But tonight, she decided right then and there, she was going to make him hers.

  4

  NEAR SEVEN IN THE EVENING, Blake and Darla stood in front of the arrivals terminal, waiting for their car, battling the chilly gusting Denver wind.

  Blake inhaled the delicate floral scent of Darla’s perfume, the feminine sweetness like whiskey warming his limbs. He rarely noticed a woman’s perfume. But then, Darla wasn’t just any other woman. He wasn’t sure of the exact moment, sometime after she’d traded in her mimosas for coffee and before the bumpy landing, when she’d desperately clung to her seat and then momentarily to him, he’d realized she had, and still was, effortlessly seducing him.

  “I can’t believe I forgot it would be this cold already,” Darla said, fighting an obvious shiver. “And I darn sure can’t believe there isn’t a cab to be found. This is an international airport. It’s just strange.”

  “Mountain country gets cold at night by most standards, even during the summer. Will you be seeing your parents on this trip?”

  “I wish,” she added. “But they’re tied up with the ranch and hours away. We’re here and gone so fast I won’t have the time.” She motioned to a line of cabs rounding the corner.

  “Looks like someone opened the flood gates,” he commented.

  A four-door black sedan pulled up at the curb in front of them and the driver quickly exited and spoke over the roof. “So sorry, Ms. James and Mr. Nelson. There’s a traffic accident on the highway leading into the airport.” He popped the trunk. “I’ll put your bags in the back.”

  Blake reached for Darla’s large suitcase—large as in the size of Texas. “You better let me get that for you.” He rolled it to the rear of the vehicle and hefted it into the compartment. “Good gosh, woman. This thing weighs a ton. You might want to rethink such a huge bag for so much travel. Next time I won’t be here.”

  She scoffed. “Only a man would suggest such a thing. I’m going to thirty cities and a girl needs good shoes to be on television.” She grimaced. “There’s a way to bring up bad memories.”

  Somehow, he was going to live down the past. “One of many reasons I’m glad I’m a man. Shoe choices are simple.” He opened the back door for her and waved her in. “Ladies first.”

  She slid inside and Blake joined her. Again in close quarters with Darla, his blood thrummed with anticipation. Darla definitely gave him another reason to be happy he was a man right now.

  “Might as well get comfortable, folks,” the driver suggested. “We’re a good forty-five minutes from downtown.”

  “Yikes,” Darla said, glancing at her watch. “I was supposed to meet my producer for drinks at 8:30 p.m.”

  “Meagan Kellar?” Blake asked, confirming they were both talking about the show’s creator, and whose husband was the studio’s head of security.

  “Yes,” she said. “You, too?”

  He nodded. “I doubt it will matter if we’re late. It’s probably a large group.”

  “Still,” Darla said, clearly concerned, “maybe I should call her.”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” the driver said. “But I did send a text message to Ms. Kellar when I arrived at the airport, per her request.”

  “Oh, excellent,” Darla said. “Thank you so much.”

  Blake found her quick, polite response sincere and refreshing. She was like a cool drink of water in the midst of what had become the murky water of people with agendas, whether they be work-related or personal. He wasn’t sure most people separated the two. Darla was who Darla was, untouched by success, free of airs and a big ego, and thankfully without fake niceties.

  “You know,” he said, “I’m glad you got mad at me when you first saw me in the airport.”

  She gave him an inquisitive look. “You’re glad I got mad at you?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Nothing like someone who hates you smiling to your face and cursing you behind your back.”

  “Well, I don’t hate you,” she said, and then smiled, “Not since my second mimosa.”

  “And did that feeling remain intact after coffee number two?”

  “Shockingly,” she teased, “it did.”

  Darla’s cell phone started to ring. “If we were at one of the Denver casinos, I’d bet you this is my mother calling.” She glanced at the number and held up the screen. “My mother. She knows I hate to fly but then so does everyone after today, right?” Darla shook her
head. “I have to get over that.” She answered the call and he could hear her mother asking about her trip, how she was doing, what happened next. Darla glanced at Blake, a cute, playful expression on her face. And sexy. Damn, the woman was adorably sexy, which was not a combination he’d often come across. “Would you believe Blake Nelson is here?” she asked, continuing her conversation with her mother.

  “What?” Blake heard her mother through the phone. “That jerk that made fun of you on cable television?”

  Blake arched a brow and Darla laughed, her eyes dancing with mischief. “I don’t know if I’d call him a jerk.”

  “You did call him a jerk,” her mother said. “And with good reason.”

  “Yeah,” she admitted. “I did call him a jerk but I was upset at the time.” They talked a bit more and Darla hung up. “She’s protective. So is my dad.”

  “I kind of gathered that.” He settled against the door to face her. “Have you revised your thoughts on me being a jerk?”

  “I’ve decided not to judge the host by his guest,” she teased, leaning on her door as well and studying him. “With caution, that is.”

  “What if I buy you dinner as a peace offering?”

  She frowned. “My dinners are paid for by the show.”

  He laughed. “Okay, so that wasn’t my best foot forward. What did you have in mind?”

  Her brows furrowed. “My mom says she never wants anything that she doesn’t come by honestly, and I live by that. I’m not suggesting anything.”

  “And my mother would say bring chocolate or don’t come at all,” he quipped. “But you brought your own.”

  “What would your father say?”

  “Have you seen any of my father’s visits on my show?”

  She shook her head. “No. I didn’t know your father visits your show. That’s actually really amazing that you are close enough to him to have him on.”

  “Yeah, well, the audience loves him. He’s an ex-rodeo bull rider who now runs a chain of rodeo-themed bars. My mother used to do promotional work for the rodeo. Now she does damage control for his big mouth. You’d never guess the man has a golden stock portfolio he handles himself, which he talks about on my show in a colorful way. Which is part of what makes my viewers love him. But we have to bleep him at least once every time he visits. In other words, if we’re looking for advice on peace offerings, my father’s suggestions would probably get me in hot water. Maybe we should stick with your mother’s wise words.”

  “Well,” she said, laughing, “I think your father sounds wonderful, but my mother does have one other piece of wisdom that seems fairly appropriate.” Her eyes dazzled with a combination of mischief, mayhem and enough sizzling heat to set his seat—and him—on fire.

  He was intrigued. “What would that be?”

  She leaned closer, her red-tinged lush lips curved slightly upward. “You get what you give.” He smiled at the suggestive words. She smiled back. “You’ll have to use your imagination from there.”

  His imagination was well into overdrive, not needing a nudge one bit—in fact, it went as wild as he wanted to with her. “I should warn you that my imagination is about as active as my father’s colorful words.”

  “Well then,” she said approvingly, “I guess I better have big expectations.” His cell phone chose that inopportune moment, when his blood was pumping hot, to ring. He grabbed it from his belt, intending to shut it up so he could get back to working his imagination, but no such luck. It was his producer.

  “My producer,” he told her, “who isn’t happy that the studio brought me here without my crew.” He answered the call and listened to a laundry list of notes for the next day’s interviews. Then a long list of questions followed, one of which had him glancing at Darla and smiling. “What are my chances of getting an interview with Darla James? I’ll get back to you on that.”

  He would most definitely regret letting what might be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity with Darla slip away—but not the on-camera kind. The up-close-and-personal and absolutely private kind.

  * * *

  “I’LL GIVE YOU AN INTERVIEW on one condition,” Darla said when Blake ended his call.

  “Let me guess,” he said, his blue eyes glinting humor and intelligence. “You want to interview me for your show? The whole ‘you get what you give’ concept, right?”

  “Now you’re getting the idea,” Darla said with approval. She still couldn’t believe she had flirted so openly with Blake. But to her surprise, she was incredibly comfortable with her now-past nemesis. “Besides, I think it would be fun. Our audiences would eat it up.”

  “Here we are,” the driver said, pulling into a hotel parking lot.

  Darla frowned. “I thought we were staying at the Rocky Mountain Tower?”

  “My apologies, ma’am,” the driver said, glancing in the mirror at her. “I thought you knew about the change of plans. Apparently, the paparazzi are all over the Tower, looking for the new judges. The studio felt you’d have more privacy here, at least for the time being, away from where the auditions are happening and where the press won’t be on your back.”

  “Oh,” she said, not sure what to make of that. “Paparazzi?”

  “You seem surprised,” Blake said curiously. “The ratings for Stepping Up were huge last season. You’re about to walk into the middle of a hurricane.”

  “Yes, of course,” she agreed, trying to sound calm. She didn’t feel calm. The magnitude of this endeavor hit her like a ton of bricks. It could change her life, her family’s life. She didn’t want to blow this. She wasn’t going to let them sell everything, or allow the ranch to be taken over by the bank, whichever came first. “That makes sense.”

  “‘That makes sense’?” Blake repeated, nudging her. “Your choice of words says this isn’t what you expected. And why do you now look like you want to be sick? What’s wrong?”

  She jerked her gaze to Blake’s, realizing she’d been staring at the back of the driver’s seat. “That obvious?”

  “You’re pretty transparent,” Blake said as the driver parked the car.

  Darla crinkled her nose. “I really need to work on that.”

  The driver opened her door. “Home sweet hotel,” he said, waving her outside.

  She glanced at Blake, trying to shake off her panic over the show, and gravely joked, “See you on the outside.” She scooted out of the car and headed for the trunk, where Blake met her. And oh, was the man sexy, a handsome blend of rough-edged good looks and charming grace. If anyone could keep her mind off tomorrow’s first day on camera, this man could.

  “I’ll get your bags to your rooms,” the driver offered and handed them both small packets. She noted a number on the front of each. “These are your room keys, which work the elevator, as well. Your room numbers are on the envelopes. You’ll both be going to floor eighteen. That’s a private floor. And drinks with Ms. Kellar and her party will be in the lounge area of eighteen, as well.”

  Darla blinked at that. “Thank you. That’s wonderful.” Blake slid the man a tip and the driver gave them a quick formal bow before departing.

  They entered the hotel and went directly to the bank of elevators. Blake punched the elevator button and checked an incoming text, quickly sending back a reply and then another, before putting away his phone. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you? Eighteen is a fairly high floor.”

  She pursed her lips. “Not when there are windows and walls.”

  He chuckled. “No skydiving for you then?”

  “Uh,” she said, “No. No skydiving for me.”

  “Hmm,” he murmured, giving her a thoughtful inspection that did nothing to diminish the heat in his gaze. “I think we should make a bet and if I win you go skydiving with me. There’s plenty of gorgeous jump locations in Colorado.”

  “You did see me inside that plane, right?” she asked, giving him an appalled look. “I was the white-knuckled one who dug her fingernails into your hand, I held on so tight.”
The elevator doors opened.

  He smiled. “I do seem to have a vague memory of fingernail-induced pain, but that’s just all the more reason to face fear and conquer it. I promise you, once you skydive you’ll be over the flying phobia.”

  She entered the empty car and he followed. “By jumping out of a plane? Are you now going to tell me that’s how your mother got over her fear? What happened to the window shade theory?”

  “I plead the fifth,” he said, slipping his key card into a slot on the wall and punching the button for the eighteenth floor.

  “There you go,” she said decisively. “You didn’t talk her into it and you won’t talk me into it. No skydiving.”

  “You’ll have a parachute in place. Besides, you don’t even know what the bet is. You might win.”

  “I never make a bet I’m afraid to lose.”

  “You do know you get to pick the prize if you win.”

  The prize. Oh, yeah, she could think of some really interesting prizes. Like a thousand orgasms. She laughed mischievously, unable to stop herself. This was her opening, her way to make him hers for the night, if she could find the courage to be daring.

  He shrugged. “Care to let me in on whatever that secret is? It looks worth knowing, based on your reaction.”

  “I was just thinking of what that prize might be.” She’d almost been daring, but not quite. The butterflies in her stomach got the best of her.

  “I’m guessing from your pleased little giggle that your prize most likely involves my embarrassment as payback for your shoe.”

  “I’m over the shoe,” she assured him. “And I am not looking to embarrass you.” But unbidden, an image of herself falling off her shoe and into Blake flashed in her mind. What if she was letting their short time together make her too trusting, too naive? The butt of a shoe joke was one thing. The butt of a bedroom joke could be truly career ending.

  “The longer you’re silent, the more curious I am,” Blake said, prodding her to confess her naughty thoughts. And judging from the glint in his eyes, he had already guessed they were naughty.