How in the world am I going to catch those eyes and hold his attention? He’s spectacular while I’m … me. Hayley would be much better at this than I am. I should’ve sent her. That would’ve been a better idea! She could do the dating for me, and I could write about it.
Though she’s already spent enough precious time helping me out. I should send her flowers too. Maybe I’d do better by buying a florist shop.
The talk lasts an hour, after which time Blake answers questions sent his way prior to the conference. Some of them are really funny.
One guy asked how he finds time to sleep with all the work he must do, and he responds, “My best work is done in the bedroom … asleep—for anybody out there getting the wrong idea.”
I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t mind hearing that deep, rich voice murmuring my name while he …
Oh jeez, I should be taking notes. He’s giving me all kinds of interesting ideas I think my readers might enjoy.
He’s finished all too soon. I could listen to him speak forever. He could read a menu, and I’d hang on his every word. Except I still have no idea how to catch him.
I have to dash out of the room to beat the rush, hoping I can catch him outside in the hall. He’s supposed to be having a meet-and-greet with VIPs—aka people who spent extra money to upgrade their experience.
Lois wasn’t able to score me that sort of ticket though, so my best chance is either before or after that session. I’ll toss my hair a lot, make sure he knows how mysterious I am. Like I don’t even care that he’s super rich and hot as a ten-alarm fire—
The next thing I know, I’m hit from behind. My purse flies in one direction, and I fly in the other, landing on my knees on an uncarpeted floor. I hear people crying out in surprise and concern all around me while my knees scream obscenities and blood rushes in my ears.
“What the hell?” I gasp, looking up through the curtain of hair I was hoping to toss in Blake’s direction. I can’t tell who hit me as they rush past, but it doesn’t matter. The result was the same, no matter who did it.
“Are you all right?” a man asks, crouching in front of me.
I can only see his shoes, shiny and expensive-looking. He reaches for me, and there’s no missing a Rolex on his wrist. Terrific. I made a huge fool of myself in front of a rich guy who happens to be the only one nice enough to stop and ask if I’m okay.
“Nothing hurts but my pride,” I mutter, looking around for my purse. Thank God it was zipped or everybody in the hall would have been treated to a wide array of chewing gum, mints, lip glosses, and feminine hygiene products. That would’ve been the cherry on top of a half-melted sundae.
“Let me help you,” the man offers, taking my arms and practically lifting me onto my feet. He’s strong but gentle—though I have no time to reflect on either of those attributes since I soon learn it’s not only my pride that’s busted.
“Oof,” I groan the second I put weight on either leg. Neither knee is bleeding, but there are already bruises coming up.
“I wish I’d caught up to the guy who slammed into you,” my savior growls. “But I was a little too concerned with helping you. I’m sure there are security cameras all around here. If you want, I can have the footage examined.”
“Why would they …” I start, finally getting up the nerve to look Mr. Helpful in the eye. It’s not easy since I feel about as clumsy and awkward as I’ve ever felt, but I manage it.
Brown eyes. Ridiculous lashes. Tan skin, sandy hair, the sort of jaw that brings to mind a comic book superhero.
“You’re Blake Marlin,” I whisper, forgetting the pain in my knees and my pride for a second.
His smile widens. “And you’re my special guest for the rest of the day. Come on. Let’s get you into a chair.” As he helps me into the smaller conference room where his VIP event is scheduled to take place, he calls out, “Can somebody grab a couple of ice packs?”
That’s the thing about the very wealthy and very powerful. They don’t even have to direct their requests to anyone in particular. They just know they’ll get what they asked for.
CHAPTER SIX
“Really, this isn’t necessary,” I insist as Blake helps me into a wheelchair. A freaking wheelchair. Somehow, he managed to get one for me, so I wouldn’t have to walk. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, well, those swollen knees tell another story,” he sighs as I settle in. “I’ve twisted both knees before, playing sports. I know how much it hurts, and I know how important it is to stay off your feet.”
“I’ve been sitting all afternoon,” I remind him with a smile.
I watched from the sidelines, ice on my knees and my feet up on a chair, as he held the special meet-and-greet with several dozen attendees. One of them kept shooting guilty looks my way, and I’d bet anything he was the one who’d knocked me down.
But that’s okay. He did me a favor even if he doesn’t know it.
Blake crouches in front of my chair, where I’m trying my best to look dignified. “You know something? I don’t even know your name. You know mine, but I was rude and never thought to ask for yours.”
“Oh.” I laugh. “It’s okay. I didn’t think that was rude at all. You had your event to get to.” I hold out a hand, which smarts like heck after landing on it along with my knees but I think I can withstand a shake. “Kitty Valentine.”
“Not the Kitty Valentine,” he murmurs, brows lifting almost clear off his forehead. “Kitty Valentine, the author?”
“Um, yes? I mean, yes. That’s me. Sorry.” I laugh, and now, I want to put that aching hand over my face to hide how hard I’m blushing. “It’s just that I would never expect you to recognize my name.”
“Are you kidding? You’re a phenomenon—four number one best-sellers.”
I can hardly believe this. “I’m sorry. Did I hit my head when I fell? Because I’m having a hard time believing you know anything about my career.”
His smile widens. “I appreciate success, especially in the form of a phenom who’s good enough to send the competition running for the hills. You managed to surprise the publishing world with how quickly you rose through the ranks, and your talent speaks for itself.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve read any of my books.” That would truly be too much—and the final nail in my coffin. No way I’m conscious and clearheaded if the man professes a love for sweet romance. I must’ve knocked myself out when I fell.
Darn it, he’s hotter than ever when he blushes.
“To be honest, no, I haven’t.”
“I thought so.” I grin.
“But my sister has. She’s a big fan of yours, and I trust her taste over just about anybody else’s.” He tilts his head to the side. “You write for one of my publishers, don’t you?”
Dang it. Of course, he was bound to make the connection. Soon, he’ll be brushing me off, telling me it’s nice to have me on board or whatever. I can’t tell him about my woes either or he might think I’m trying to get my next book picked up by heading straight to the top of the food chain.