Propositioned Into A Foreign Affair(3)

By: Catherine Mann

Or rather he had worked. Because by morning, the guy would be fired.

The dog barked louder as if in agreement.

“Security will be escorting you out,” Sam growled lowly. “You are no longer welcome here. Your magazine will no longer be given access to any press conferences held here if they keep you on staff.”

A big-time loss to the magazine that would guarantee the guy’s walking papers.

“I’m just doing my job,” the photographer gasped.

“And I am doing mine.” Sam pressed his foot down more forcefully.

The guy with the camera cowered. Yeah, he’d gotten the no-trespassing message loud and clear.

Sam eased pressure. “If you manage to land another job, perhaps you will remember to be more polite to my guests in the future.”

The dog growled, launching through the door and into the hall.

Dog? More like a…Hell, he didn’t know what to call the bristly little beast that looked more like a slightly mangy steel wool pad of indeterminable breed.

“Muffin!” Bella squeaked, peeking out the door.

The photographer lurched, grappling for his camera.

Like hell.

Sam yanked the camera from the relentless guy’s white-knuckled grip. Muffin leaped with surprising lift for a dog so small. The photographer started to arch upward again. Sam scowled. Muffin landed on the guy’s face.

The photographer sagged.

Muffin growled with an underbite and a protruding lower tooth that gave the mutt something close to a Billy Idol snarl. Sam flipped the camera over and popped free the storage disk. He rubbed the tiny bit of plastic between his fingers, his brow furrowed. Then he smiled.

“Muffin,” he looked down at the dog, “fetch.”

He flicked the card full of six-figure photos to the ugliest little mutt he’d ever seen.

The pooch snapped the “treat” out of midair. Crunch. Crunch.

The photographer slumped back with a whimper.

Bella laughed from the doorway. Husky. Uninhibited.

Sam jerked to look over his shoulder at her.

She fisted the sheet tight between her breasts, flame-red hair tumbling down to her shoulders with a post-sex look that called to his libido. No question about it. The American starlet was drop-dead gorgeous. He’d noticed her before when their paths crossed at the occasional high powered party, but her up close appeal now packed an extra punch.

A security guard jogged down the hall, snapping the thread of awareness. “Do you need help, M’sieur Garrison?” Henri the masseur called.

Ah, she’d been getting a massage. He should have guessed, but something about this woman just screamed sex and he’d jumped to conclusions. Regardless, he needed to deal with the crisis at hand.

“Haul this piece of trash out of my hotel and make sure he’s never allowed back in.” He’d grown up experiencing firsthand what hell these sorts of muck-rakers brought to people’s lives.

Sam watched the guard drag the dejected photographer into a stairwell, then turned his attention back to the sexy diva.

She knelt beside her dog, sheet cupping the sweet curves of her bottom. “Muffin, give it up.” She pinched at the memory card clenched in the pup’s snaggletoothed mouth. “I appreciate your help, sweetie pie, but I don’t want you to choke.”

Sam snapped his fingers.

The dog whipped her furry head around, spitting out the plastic card as she hastened to pay attention.

Bella’s eyes went wide with surprise. She gathered up her pet, just managing to keep the white sheet from slithering to her feet.

Desire spiked through him, stronger this time, followed by something else. Determination.

Bella Hudson would not be sashaying out of his life anytime soon tonight.


Bella faced her rescuer. Her very hot rescuer.

Muscular Sam Garrison dominated the corridor outside his office with the same authority he reputedly brought to the boardroom. She tried to distance herself by looking at him with a more analytical eye.

His chestnut-brown hair was trimmed military short, his gray gaze more like piercing steel. He appeared strong enough to take on anyone, anywhere, but even with the sleeves of his crisp, white shirt rolled up, he didn’t look the sort to dirty his hands with this type of work often. Everything from his perfect haircut to his high-end loafers shouted privilege.