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was.
    Mark sat on the edge of her table, leaned forward, and sent her an amused smile.
    Dimples. Real, live dimples creasing each side of his face. On any other man, they might have looked girlish. On him, oh no. He looked all man. She'd died and found heaven.
    "I can flirt, if I have to. I'd rather just talk to you. About you."
    It had to be a line, and she'd be stupid to be affected by it. Ignoring her speeding heartbeat, Nicki cocked her head and regarded him with what she hoped was a cool gaze. "That's laying it on a tad thick."
    He leaned in. "It's being honest. I Googled you before this meeting. You run with quite a crowd. What was it like hanging out with Paris Hilton at parties?"
    "Relatively dateless. And once she got into home movies ... well, then I really couldn't compete," she said flippantly.
    "So all the men you met in the past were stupid?"
    "Excuse me?"
    "To be more interested in a careless bimbo than you, they've got to be stupid. To run a business takes some guts, brains, and substance."
    A burst of pleasure flushed her body at his words. For years she'd wondered why men failed to see the qualities of a woman beyond her waistline, ass, or breasts. Maybe this guy did. And maybe he was blowing sunshine up her skirt. She couldn't deny, however, that he was good.
    "You have the most interesting eyes," he murmured. "They're so blue and exotic next to your beautiful olive skin."
    "My dad was both a typical Italian and a typical man. I got his skin. Everything else, I got from my mother. She was half Norwegian, half Chinese."
    "No kidding?" His smile widened. "That's a unique combination."
    "My father liked possessing unique mistresses. She was a beautiful woman."
    "So is her daughter."
    Boy, he looked at her. Right at her. With those vivid hazel eyes, he stared, taking her in. She didn't want to be affected by his praise or his gaze on her. It was stupid, unprofessional.
    You don't always get what you want, a pesky voice in her head reminded her.
    "You going to dance for me, or you going to sit here and gab all day?"
    "Whatever you want, boss." He winked and turned away.
    From his backpack, Mark extracted a CD and placed it in the portable player located stage left. Moments later, a rich, sexy techno rhythm filled the air. To the beat of the music, he strutted to the front edge of the stage, his expression mysterious, arrogant, as his gaze locked on to hers. For a man who stood about five inches over six feet, he moved with a slick grace, a smooth prowl. Generally, if a man was a good dancer, he was also good in--
    Get your mind out of the gutter, girl. He's here to audition, not light your fire!
    Nicki knew she should be more jaded. She saw this kind of stuff all the time. Every night, in fact. But something about Mark made being impervious utterly impossible. She had no idea why he affected her more than any other hottie working here. But when a bump of his hips had her catching her breath, she couldn't deny that he did.
    A large hand raking through the pale sheen of his hair as he prowled closer had her heartbeat racing. The pure sex attitude and intent stare had her lamenting every last moment of her two years of celibacy.
    But when he grabbed the edges of his shirt and ripped them wide, exposing a chest bulging with muscle and abs rippling with definition, Nicki pretty much lost her mind.
    The white shirt hung loose on his wide shoulders, stark against his golden skin. Every muscle in his sleek torso bunched as he took a deep breath. His incredible pectorals tightened as he raised his hands from his sides.
    They stopped at the waistband of his pants.
    His gaze honed in on her again, rich with promise and knowledge. This man knew a thing or two about sin. His thumb glided down his fly, directly down the length of a bulge a blind woman couldn't miss.
    Nicki sucked in a breath and held it.
    A reproachful half-smile taunted her just before he yanked on his shirt, stripping it clean away from his body, exposing