The Taming of a Wild Child

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.

CHAPTER TWO

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.

Several of the younger guests continued the celebrations long into the night, keeping the bar open and the staff hopping. Lorelei LaBlanc, sister of the bride and Maid of Honor, swapped her bridesmaid’s dress for a flirty, sparkly number and danced the night away with some of the city’s most eligible bachelors. Interestingly, she and the most eligible bachelor of all, journalist and TV commentator Donovan St. James, seemed to be quite friendly—much to the dismay of the other eligible bachelors and bachelorettes.

Lorelei nearly dropped her coffee.

Oh, merde.

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?”

“I rather assumed you’d already know.”

This was obviously going to take more than just a minute. He sat on the edge of his desk. “Uh, no. I usually skip that part of the paper.”

“Well, it might not be as far-reaching as that transportation bill, but it certainly rocks this little part of the world.”

The mention of his column caught him off-guard. He wouldn’t have thought Lorelei read the editorial section of any newspaper. And normally he’d be surprised that the mention of something two private citizens possibly did at a private function could be considered earth-rocking in any part of the world, but he’d humor her for the moment. “What did it say?”

In response, Lorelei pulled a torn page out of her purse and shoved it at him. It took a second for him to get through a rundown of the guest list, what everyone was wearing and a description of the ice sculptures, but finally he found Lorelei’s name and his. He turned the paper over, looking for more, but on the back was an advertisement for a casino. “That’s it?”

Lorelei’s jaw dropped. “You don’t think that’s enough?”

“I don’t actually see the problem, Lorelei.”

She looked on the edge of a sputter. “My mother reads the Wednesday Pages like the Bible.”

“As does mine. So?”

This time Lorelei did sputter. “So? That’s all you have to say?”

“Well, I don’t see a reason to freak out.”

“Obviously your mother hasn’t been texting you all morning, looking for an explanation because half the city is asking her for an explanation.”

So that was what had her panties in a twist. Damn it. I shouldn’t have thought about her panties. Especially since he knew for a fact that her taste in undergarments ran to the tiny and lacy. “Definitely not.”

“Well, that figures.”

He could hear the sour that must be nice tone under those words. “Look, Lorelei. We don’t owe anyone an explanation for anything—much less some busybody’s baseless speculation in what is little more than a gossip column.”

Lorelei’s eyes widened. “‘Baseless speculations?’”

“Well, it was baseless—at least until your little freak-out gave it credence. The very fact you came running down here makes it look like there really is something going on. Something more than what was publicly witnessed. Someone went fishing and you took the bait. You’ve pretty much told the world we had sex.”

Her eyes widened. “For the love of …” Lorelei obviously hadn’t thought it through until now, and the realization set her pacing in frustration. She started muttering to herself, and he caught the occasional phrase about her mother or Vivi killing her. Even Connor’s name came up once. Finally she stopped pacing and turned to him. “What do you suggest we do?”

He didn’t see the big deal. “We don’t do anything. I’m going to go about my business as always. You can do whatever you think best.”

“Donovan, I’m asking for your help here. You may not care that there’s gossip in the paper, but I do.”

“Since when?” There was certain information a person couldn’t avoid, no matter how uninterested they might be. That included news of the adventures of the young, wealthy, beautiful and fabulous. Lorelei had made the papers plenty of times with far more descriptive rundowns on her activities.

“I know I haven’t cared in the past, but things are different now.”

Her voice lost the impatience and the snark, and for a moment she sounded almost vulnerable. But she was completely overreacting. This was not nearly the catastrophe Lorelei seemed to think it was, and, left alone, it would all blow over soon enough.

“I know I’ve never been a saint like Vivi. Never will be, either.” She smiled weakly, and he realized that it had to be tough to live up to an example like Vivi. “The thing is, with Vivi and Connor on their honeymoon, I’m going to be making appearances on their behalf—for the charities they represent and the organizations they support. I don’t need—and can’t have—this kind of gossip hanging over my head and coloring everyone’s thoughts.” Lorelei’s blue eyes were wide and earnest. She was serious. “It’s not just about me. It’s about them and their reputations and the organizations they do so much for. There’s a lot more at stake than just a little public embarrassment for me.”

He normally didn’t have any patience for the troubles of the children of the city’s elite. Connor and Vivi had been the exceptions that had slowly brought him around to a different view. They hadn’t sat on their trust funds or relied on family connections to coast through in a perfect life. They’d worked hard: Connor with his music career and Vivi with her art gallery and work with every non-profit organization in the parish. That he respected.

If Lorelei had hit him with anything else …

Damn. He felt himself buckling. When had he become such a sucker for a damsel in distress?

“Who did the write-up?”

Lorelei looked relieved as he relented. She glanced at the article for its byline. “Evelyn Jones.”

He knew Evelyn slightly through the newspaper. Her true calling was in tabloid gossip, and the New Orleans society pages were the closest she’d gotten. “Was she a guest at the wedding?”

Lorelei seemed to be thinking. “She was there. I’m pretty sure she left after the cake-cutting, though.”

“Then she’s reporting hearsay. Everyone in the bar that night was just as far gone as we were.”

“Except for the servers—”

“And the one who gave up that little tidbit probably got a nice fat tip for the story.”

“That’s a terrible—”

He shrugged off her outrage. “That’s the way it works. For a hundred bucks I could get a source to swear they once saw Mother Theresa doing keg stands. Times are tough all around. Money talks.”

Lorelei looked outraged. “That’s dishonest.”

“That’s tabloid journalism for you.”

“And you wonder why—”

“I don’t wonder anything, Lorelei. It is what it is.”

“So you’d sell someone’s reputation out just for money?” She looked worried. He assumed she’d only just now realized that he now had quite the story about her to sell. He wouldn’t even have to lie or embellish it, either.

“Calm down. I see no need to spread the news, and I certainly don’t need the money.”

Lorelei shot him a look he couldn’t decipher. Then she sighed and sank back onto the couch. “So how do I disprove something when I don’t know how much of it is true? I’m not a very good liar.” The corners of her mouth turned down as she confessed that like it was a character flaw.

“We did not engage in any PDA at the bar. It was later that …” He trailed off as Lorelei flushed that rosy color. “We laugh it off. That’s it. We and the others were just having a good time—as one does at a party—and any other claims have been exaggerated for effect.”