Page 1 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis (In The Heart of A Valentine #17)

Christian

One year earlier

The elevator climbed to 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.

“By the car? It’s beautiful.” She adjusted her seatbelt. “By the man who chose it? The jury’s still out.”

“Fair enough. What would impress you?”

“That’s not really the point of tonight, is it? I’m here to make you look good, not the other way around.”

I pulled into traffic, glancing at her profile. “What if I want to impress you anyway?”

“Then you’d be the first client to say that.”

“Maybe I like being first.”

She turned those feline eyes directly at me, and a heat rush fell over my skin.

“You seem like the type of man who can get his own date. Am I wrong?”

“No.”

“Then why am I here?”

I considered giving her some easy answer about convenience or avoiding complications. But I settled for the truth.

“Because I’m tired of women who see my bank account before they see me then create their own persona to woo me in the hopes of gaining something for it. I’d love authenticity for a change, but if I never find that then at least I know who I’m dealing with when it comes to a service like yours.”

“That’s honest enough.”

“Also because Gary Stark said you were brilliant.”

“Gary Stark, huh?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“If I did, that would be confidential.”

I smirked. “I think I like your style.”

“Wait until the end of the night then let me know.”

I bit my bottom lip, glancing between her and the road.

“Do you know where I’m taking you tonight?”

She was quiet for a moment, then said, “The charity we’re attending is The Jamison Foundation’s literacy program. It has a ninety-three percent success rate in North County schools. Still, they’re struggling with funding.”

I glanced at her, surprised. “You researched tonight’s charity?”

“I research everything. It’s part of providing quality service.”

She was quiet for the rest of the drive, but I saw her watching me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.

The Jamison Foundation gala mimicked previous events I’d attended. Crystal chandeliers, designer gowns, and elite society made up the aura. What I hadn’t expected was how natural it felt to walk in with Naomi on my arm.

“This is an impressive turnout,” she said, scanning the ballroom. “I’d bet half these people couldn’t tell you what the foundation actually does.”

“That’s a bit cynical, isn’t it?”

“It’s realistic when you’re talking about the rich. I’ve been to enough of these events to know the difference between philanthropy and social networking.”

“And which category do I fall into?”

She looked up at me with those feline eyes combing over me. “I’m still deciding.”

“Mr. Valentine!” Brannon Jamison approached us with his wife in tow. “I’m so glad you could make it.” His eyes perused Naomi. “And who is this lovely lady?”

“Brannon, Melinda, this is Naomi Blackford. Naomi, this is Brannon and Melinda Jamison.”

Naomi stepped forward with a warm smile that transformed her entire face. “Mr. Jamison, it’s such an honor. I’ve been following the foundation’s work in North County. The results speak for themselves.”

Brannon’s face lit up. “You’re familiar with our programs?”

“I believe literacy is the foundation of everything else. What you’re accomplishing with at-risk youth is remarkable.”

Brannon launched into passionate details about their success stories, and I watched Naomi engage unpretentiously.

She asked thoughtful questions about reading levels, volunteer training, and community partnerships.

She was an excellent engager and the more I watched her the more I understood Gary Stark’s recommendation.

“She’s special,” Melinda whispered to me when Brannon got distracted by another donor.

“Yes, she is,” I replied, meaning it more than it should’ve.

When the Jamisons moved on, Naomi turned to me. “You’re staring.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“Honestly?”

“Of course.”

“It’s hard to look away from you.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her beautiful mouth.

“I’m impressed also.”

“By what?”

“By the fact that you care about more than just looking good on someone’s arm.”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m a human being, not a decoration.”

“I’m starting to realize that.”

The band began playing a slow and sultry number, and couples moved onto the dance floor.

“Would you like to dance?” I asked.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

I led her onto the floor, pulling her into my arms where she fit perfectly against me. She followed my lead, her footsteps matching mine with an added flair of flavor.

“Where did you learn to dance like this?” I asked as we moved together.

“Cotillion classes. My mother insisted I take them, and now it’s a requirement for my girls when one joins the business.” She looked up at me. “What about you? Most men your age avoid dancing like the plague.”

“My Aunt Bernice. She said a man who couldn’t dance couldn’t be trusted with anything important.”

Naomi laughed, it was a musical sound that made my body warm. “She’s a smart woman.”

“She is. She also taught me to cook.”

“Is that right? What’s your specialty?”

“Whatever you’re hungry for.”

The suggestive innuendo caused heat to rise between us. Naomi’s eyes widened, but she didn’t pull away.

“That’s a dangerous offer to make to a woman,” she said.

“Why dangerous?”

“Because I have a big appetite.”

Heat moved to my groin, and I came to the conclusion that she was playing the game that I’d started. The song ended, but neither of us moved to separate. The next number began, a more energized tempo. Naomi surprised me by stepping back and extending her hand.

“Show me what else your Aunt Bernice taught you.”

When I pulled her close, our bodies clung together like a puzzle piece. Our hips moved, our gazes steady on each other as we twirled and swung like one ecosystem. We were like tune after tune and by the time we realized it an hour had passed.

“Okay, now I’m impressed,” she said, slightly breathless as we left the dance floor. “Where did you learn to swing dance like that?”

“I told you. My aunt didn’t believe in doing anything halfway.”

“I like her already.”