classically handsome.
She remembered that nose. Those eyes. She remembered this man. How could this be the infamous local hotshot, Rafe D’Angelo? This was Oz, the casino pit boss she’d worked with briefly six years ago.
A man whom she may or may not have slept with.
The snake in the grass who had disappeared out of her life before she’d ever had the chance to find out.
Oh God. Did he recognize her?
It didn’t appear so. His features remained bland and unremarkable as he relaxed into the chair in front of her desk. She didn’t know whether she should be glad or unhappy about the fact that she hadn’t stirred his memory.
Of course, she’d looked different back then. Dolled up like the rest of the plastic princesses who had worked in Native Sun’s casino. The night she’d gone after the story of her life—city government employees who spent a hefty portion of taxpayer money on gambling and hookers—she’d worn enough makeup for the entire chorus.
In spite of years spent trying to put that incident out of her memory, she couldn’t help remembering how the tables had gotten turned. How the lowlife she’d gone after had slipped something in her drink. How he and his friend would have raped her if they’d had the chance.
This man—Oz—had evidently stopped that from happening. Her memory was fuzzy, but she definitely recalled waking up naked next to him. He’d seemed somewhat amused by her reaction when she’d rolled over and spotted him, propped up on one elbow beside her. He’d told her that she was safe, that he’d take care of her, and she’d believed him. It hadn’t helped that she’d fallen asleep shortly after that. At least, she thought she had.
Had they had sex?
She still wasn’t one hundred percent positive. When she’d finally come to again, she was still naked, but her head was clearer and Oz was gone. Vanished. From the room. From the casino. From her life.
Oh, it was too humiliating to think about, even now.
Given the way things had turned out, she realized she was perfectly happy not to take a trip down memory lane. No, better to stay away from that subject and hope that in addition to being the local ladies’ man, Rafe D’Angelo had a memory like a sieve.
She sat down limply behind her desk, suddenly conscious that her hair was a mess and she hadn’t bothered with makeup today. “Who—What brings you to my little part of town?” she asked, trying for her most professional tone.
He seemed perfectly willing, thank goodness, to put aside any conversation of a personal nature. “I’m sure you’ve heard the town has an interest in hosting a summer festival?”
“I’ve heard there’s been some discussion.”
She could tell he found that assessment funny. His mouth curved upward—in the kind of quiet, private delight that could make a woman’s toes curl. Dani suddenly remembered that several of her fellow show girls had particularly loved that smile of his.
“Discussion,” he said, as though hearing the word for the first time. “That’s a polite term for it. A festival committee has been established, but they’ve yet to agree on a theme. I was elected the publicity chairman.”
“Ah.”
She understood now. Flacks—which was what the newspaper called PR people who constantly ran around doing their smoke-and-mirrors thing—drove her crazy. They were experts at spinning the truth to fit their own needs, and she had very little use for them. Whatever else Oz—Rafe—might be, it didn’t surprise her one bit that he’d been elected to handle the PR slot. Hadn’t he always been an expert at subtle persuasion back at Native Sun?
She realized he was frowning at her. “Ah? What does that mean exactly?” he asked.
“Nothing really. Just that I think I see where this is going.”
“You do?” He cocked his head. “And where exactly are we going, Mrs. Bridgeton?”
“Miss.”
“Ah.”
It was her turn to frown. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Just nice to get all the players straight, I suppose. Especially since I’d like us to spend some time together.”
The words came out in such a hot, silky tone that she almost forgot what they were talking about. “I beg your pardon?” she said, trying to dissolve the sudden lump of something strange in her stomach.
“Spend time together. For the sake of publicizing the festival.”
Relief stretched through her. “Oh, of course. What did you have in mind, Mr. D’Angelo?”
“Please call me Rafe.”
She inclined her head politely in agreement although she had no intention of calling him Rafe. Or Oz. Or anything. In fact, the sooner she could shoo him out of the office, the better she’d like it. Life was getting too darned complicated.
She ran a hand over her hair, glad suddenly that she’d chopped off several inches a year ago so that it fell to just below her shoulders. The shorter, less-dramatic style she currently wore probably set off no memory bells for him. Giving him another professional glance, she said, “I assume you’re here looking for coverage.”
“I am. In the best interest of the town.”
“I plan to cover it, of course. If it’s still going to take place on a Saturday, I’ll have a piece running the next day in the Telegraph’s Sunday supplement.”
“I was thinking of something a little more extensive than that.”
Dani’s eyes narrowed. “Such as?”
“Reasonably priced ad space. Perhaps an article or two in the weeks leading up to the festival. We want to attract as many people as possible. It’s critical that it be a financial success.”
“Mr. D’Angelo, perhaps you don’t understand. The paper isn’t interested in covering any festival just so that this town can make money.”
“I understand that we can’t use the paper simply to fill the town’s coffers,” he said, not at all put off by her attitude. He withdrew a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. “I’ve asked the mayor to furnish you with a commitment list of all the projects the town intends to use the proceeds for. As you can see, it’s quite extensive.”
Dani quickly scanned the list. He was right—it was impressive. The Telegraph wouldn’t object to being used to further these kinds of causes. She set the paper aside.
“What angle is the festival going to take?” she asked.
“I’m afraid that’s still undecided. The committee is leaning toward one of two themes proposed at the last town meeting.”
Oh, she’d heard all about that town meeting. Free-for-all was more like it. “Was that the town meeting where one member threatened to deck another with his oxygen tank?”
He laughed lightly, a warm, mellow sound that made a good companion to his smile. “I’m not sure that specific threat was ever made. But I see you’re familiar with the people I’m dealing with, Miss Bridgeton.” He inclined his head toward the nameplate that sat on her desk. “May I call you Danielle?”
She nodded quickly. Clearly he didn’t remember her as DeeDee Whitefeather. “I heard that tempers flared,” she said. “If you got strong-armed into this job, then you have my sympathy.”
“Thanks. As I was saying, no definite decisions have been made, but if we could, I’d like to schedule some time with you tomorrow.”
Her nerve endings began to fire like pistons in a car. “Why?”
Was