Follow My Lead (Stepping Up 2)

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.

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