Книга - Cutting Loose

Cutting Loose
Kristin Hardy


Members of Sex & the Supper Club cordially invite you to a sneak preview of intimacies best shared among friendsWhen a gang of twentysomething women get together, men are always on the menu! A makeover. A masked stranger. A master suite. When Trish Dawson's new look attracts the attention of a fellow costume-party guest, she decides to cut loose and go for it. When his mask comes off, not to mention his clothes, hot actor Ty Ramsay is revealed. Insisting this'll be a one-night-only performance, she's going to risk it all. But Ty has other ideas…ones that involve all-night make-out sessions, doing damage to the headboard and three-day getaways to the sexiest spots on earth. He might even be thinking long-term, Trish has him so wound up–but she's not sure and may need a lot of convincing…Ty Ramsay style!









Her moan was loud in the quiet of the room


Trish couldn’t help herself. She was feeling totally free, wanton for the first time. And with Ty of all people—gorgeous, smart, sensitive, built. Totally built.

She let out a shuddering breath. His hands paused at her bare waist and their eyes locked. The moment was intoxicating. Like a drug, she didn’t want it to end and thought she’d never get enough.

“I don’t think this is smart,” Trish managed.

His eyes were very green up close. His rough hands started to move again, stroking, touching one breast, then the other. “We’re long past smart.”

“I shouldn’t be doing this.” Her words were barely audible.

“You want it anyway,” he whispered back.

And his mouth claimed hers in a deep, deep kiss.







Dear Reader,

Welcome to book two of SEX & THE SUPPER CLUB. To tell Trish’s story, I interviewed screenwriters and producers to find out what life in the movie industry is really like. I never dreamed that the filmmaking process would strike so close to home. I would never have guessed that while I was in the middle of spinning the tale of Trish’s screenwriting success, I’d find out that one of my own books had been made into a film by the Oxygen Network. My Sexiest Mistake, my debut book for the Harlequin Blaze line, was only the first. Word is, more of your favorite Blaze novels will follow, so keep your eyes peeled.

Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy Trish’s story. Trish leads a quiet life—at least until her book starts—but what happens to her proves that there’s a little bit of Blaze out there in all of us. Write me at kristin@kristinhardy.com and tell me what you think. Or visit my Web site at www.kristinhardy.com for contests, recipes and updates on my recent and upcoming releases, including the next SEX & THE SUPPER CLUB story, Nothing but the Best, coming in December 2004.

Have fun,

Kristin Hardy




Cutting Loose

Kristin Hardy







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To the members of the Wednesday Night Dinner Club who gave me the idea, and to Stephen, who kept me inspired.




Contents


Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17




Prologue


Los Angeles, 1995

“COME ON, everyone, sit down, please.” Trish Dawson glanced around the room at the managers for the university’s spring play. Why the producer had asked Trish to run the meeting in her absence, Trish had no idea. Maybe she had a head for details, but she was much happier acting as script doctor than ringmaster. Thanks very much.

Trish took a deep breath. “Anita’s sick so she’s asked me to get things going. Now, we’ve got two weeks until opening night. We just need to do a status check before we start rehearsal. Martin, you first,” she ordered, trying to avoid looking at the director with his razor-sharp cheekbones and spill of dark hair. He was too good-looking to trust, in Trish’s book. She might have learned that lesson about men the hard way, but she’d learned it well.

“We’re in pretty good shape,” Martin allowed, flashing his careless smile. “Right now we’re still running about ten minutes long. Where are you at on the cuts, Trish?”

“You’ll have the revisions by noon tomorrow,” she answered, mentally cursing the flush she could feel moving over her face.

“In that case, I’d like to plan for a dress rehearsal in a week,” Martin said. “How are we doing with the battle scene?” he asked the dark-haired choreographer, Thea Masterson.

“Same as we were when you asked me an hour ago.” Humor glinted in Thea’s hazel eyes. “I’ve been running the cast through the sequences and they’re coming along nicely.”

“How about costumes?” Trish turned to her best friend, Cilla Danforth, wardrobe mistress. “Are we on target for dress rehearsal?”

“The outfits for the leads should be done,” Cilla said, rolling up the cuff of her Marc Jacobs couture grunge shirt. “A couple of the bit players might have to play it in street clothes, but their costumes aren’t that important.”

“Historically accurate?” Martin asked.

Cilla stared at him blandly. “You worry about the actors, Martin, sugar. I’ll worry about the clothes.”

Cilla never took anything from anybody, Trish thought admiringly, wishing she could be the same way. “How about sets?” she asked, turning to the design manager, Paige Wheeler.

Paige consulted her tidy stack of notes. “Everything’s ready,” she supplied. “Touch-ups on the interior set for act three should be finished by tomorrow. Otherwise, everything’s done.”

The day Paige missed a deadline was the day the planets stopped moving in their orbits, Trish reflected. She looked at a blonde in a Pearl Jam T-shirt. “Delaney, where are we at on marketing?”

“Signage is up and Kelly’s been running her ‘Behind the Scenes’ series in the school paper,” Delaney responded, nodding toward Kelly Vandervere, staff reporter.

“And there’s Sabrina,” Kelly reminded her.

“Oh, right, thanks.” Delaney turned to the group. “You guys all probably know Sabrina Pantolini, the one who’s doing the documentary on the play. She’s going to cut a commercial from her footage to play on the college station.”

There was a round of applause. Trish waited for it to die down and checked her watch. “Great, so it looks like everything’s on schedule. I’ll just write this up for Anita and we can get started with rehearsals.”

Everyone rose and began drifting out. “S&S meeting tonight at Tortilla Flats,” Cilla reminded her before leaving.

“S&S? What’s that?” asked Martin, standing nearby.

Tell him it stood for Sex & Supper Club? No way was Trish going to go there, especially not when her palms were already sweating from nerves. “Just a group of us getting together,” she said vaguely, picking up her notebook.

He considered. “Maybe I’ll come along.”

To hear them dissect which guy they knew kissed better than the rest? Trish resisted snorting. “It’s, um, a girl-only thing.”

“Maybe some other time, then,” he said lightly. “So, are you nervous about opening night?”

“A little,” she admitted. “Are you?”

“Not really. It’ll be fine.”

“I wish I had your faith.”

He shrugged. “It’s not hard. It’s just a matter of trusting to luck.”

She met his eyes for the first time. “I guess everything is.”




1


Los Angeles, Present

“SO THIS is your favorite sex fantasy, jeans and a T-shirt? All this time, I never knew you were acting out your dreams at the Supper Club meetings.” Cilla looked out the door of her ’30s Brentwood bungalow, an impish look on her triangular vixen’s face as she stared at Trish and her casual clothes.

“You guys always turn me on so much,” Trish said, walking through the door.

“I’ll bet. You do realize you’re going to have to change, right? Remember? ‘Dress like your favorite sex fantasy?’”

“‘To see my fantasy become reality.’ Yep, I read the invitation, too.”

“Sabrina’s serious about her costume parties.”

“Right. Well, just now my favorite sex fantasy involves a bath and a foot massage,” Trish sighed, setting her purse down on the hall table. Working for her sister Amber, at her home concierge company, doing errands for a living, was exhausting. “I am beat. Anyway, you’re one to talk.” She gestured at Cilla’s plum-colored Michael Kors business suit. “Where’s your costume?”

“I just got home. The big Danforth’s couture show is tomorrow, so of course everything went wrong all day long.”

“Rodeo Drive retail. It’s a rough life you live,” she said with false sympathy as Cilla stuck out her tongue. “So is it all taken care of now?”

“I think so. We’ve got someone to pick up the designer when she flies in, so I’m off the hook for the night. And I do have a costume for the party, I’ll have you know. I’m going as a naughty nurse,” Cilla said, flipping back the neckline of her blouse to flash her the black lace of her bra.

Trish fanned herself laughingly. “You keep that up, you’ll give your patients heart failure.”

“Oh, but what a nice way for them to go,” Cilla grinned. “So I’m set, but we’ve got to do something about you.” Suddenly her eyes brightened in a way Trish didn’t entirely trust. “You know, it’s only seven-thirty,” she said casually. “We’ve got buckets of time. Let’s get a drink and we can fix you right up.”

Trish flopped down in one of the overstuffed chairs as Cilla walked to the kitchen. “It’s been a long day. I’m as fixed up as I need to be.”

Cilla popped her head out of the kitchen doorway. “If you go like this, you’ll feel totally uncomfortable and be convincing yourself to leave half an hour after you get there.” She ducked back into the kitchen.

Trish raised her voice. “I’ll be ready to leave after half an hour anyway. You know how much I love parties. Right up there next to root canals.”

“So don’t think of it as a party. Think of it as a Sex & Supper Club meeting with a few extra people there. Come on. Just this once, trust me.” Cilla walked out, carrying fizzing glasses of something pale. “I’ll make you look so gorgeous you’ll be the toast of the evening. Now what happened with the hunky carpenter you were talking to when I called you this afternoon?”

Trish shrugged. “He finished the job and left. They usually do.”

“That’s all? You didn’t talk with him?”

“Of course I talked with him. I had to get him to sign the paperwork, didn’t I?”

Cilla blinked. “You spend half a day in a house alone with a gorgeous man and you don’t even flirt with him? Trish, Trish, Trish, what are we going to do with you?” She clicked her tongue in disappointment.

“The client could have walked in. Besides, he’s a contractor we use regularly. If I’d joked back with him, he might have gone ahead and asked me out.” Trish said, and took a sip of her drink. Ginger ale.

“So? He might have been a nice guy.”

Trish swirled her drink around. “Yeah, but if we went out, I’d have to talk with him, and then I’d be all stressed over saying something clever so of course I wouldn’t be able to think of a single thing, and then I’d be worried about the silence and then I’d be worried that he would be thinking I was a boring goob and wondering how to end the evening as soon as possible. And there’s the whole kissing thing at the end of the night, and I’m starting to think I’m just not cut out for it.” She took a drink. “And if we hit it off, it would be worse. I’d spend way too much money on haircuts and new underwear and then he’d break up with me and I’d have to work with him later. It’s just not worth all the hassle.” Trish looked up at Cilla, who was suppressing a smile. “What?”

“That’s efficient. You got all the way through the entire relationship without even leaving the room, let alone talking to the guy. Look at all the money and time you saved.”

Trish flushed. “Look, it’s just more than I want to mess with right now.”

“It doesn’t have to be that hard,” Cilla pointed out. “He might have been a really funny guy and all you’d have had to do was sit there and laugh.” She leaned in toward Trish. “Who knows, you might even have had fun. Look, do me a favor.”

“What?” Trish gave her a suspicious look.

“Forget about all that stuff. Come to the party and just relax. The gang will be there so you don’t have to worry about talking to guys all alone. Besides, I’ll get you fixed up so they’ll talk to you no matter what. Consider it an experiment.” She rose, slender and leggy in her short skirt. “You might even have a good time.”

Trish eyed Cilla skeptically and followed her as she headed down the hall. “You’re not going to turn into my sister and start telling me it’s all about appearance, are you?”

“That’s just Amber’s excuse for making you do all the grunt work while she stays in the office filing her nails.”

“It’s her company,” Trish said simply. “Besides, she’s better at the sales end. Amber likes dressing up every day, I’m happy in jeans. Someone’s got to show the right image to the outside world.”

“Gee, can’t imagine who said that.” Cilla’s voice was wry. “You know, if you just ditched the T-shirt and jeans and spruced yourself up a little, people would be so busy staring at you, no one would give Amber a second glance.”

Trish flicked her gaze to the ceiling. “I don’t want people staring at me, thanks, and I like wearing a T-shirt and jeans.”

“And they like you,” Cilla said smoothly. “But at a party? You’ll feel more comfortable if you’re looking your best.”

“Come on, Cilla, a little makeup isn’t going to change things.”

“Mmm. I had in mind something a little more radical,” Cilla stated, walking into her bedroom and pulling open the closet door.

“If you think I’m going to be able to fit into anything of yours, you’re dreaming,” Trish said, coming in after her. “I’m three sizes larger than you are.”

“Give me a break.” Cilla grabbed a handful of the cloth at Trish’s waist. “You could take these jeans off without ever unbuttoning them. Why are you still buying clothes for someone you were ten years ago?”

“They’re comfortable,” Trish muttered.

“So’s being naked, but I don’t see you walking around like that.”

“This is ridiculous.”

Cilla pulled out garments at random, humming to herself. “Humor me.”

Trish tried again. “Cilla, no one’s going to care whether I’m in costume or not.

Cilla turned to her and smiled. “Trust me. They will when I get through with you.”



“LET ME SEE.”

“Stay still.”

“I just want to make sure you’re not going overboard.”

“I’m not.”

“I don’t believe you,” Trish said, trying unsuccessfully to rise from her perch on the toilet seat.

“You’ll see when I’m done. Now sit,” Cilla ordered, pushing her back down. She brandished the mascara wand. “Look toward the ceiling and try to keep your eyes open wide.”

“That’s the third coat of mascara you’ve put on,” Trish pointed out. Makeovers exasperated her. Good, bad or ugly, she was who she was, and all shining-up her act was going to do was make her expect things that were never going to happen.

Yeah, she’d learned that the hard way.

Trish reached out for the hand mirror on the counter but Cilla fixed her with a look. “You take one peek and I’m not giving your jeans back. Ever.”

“Come on, Cilla, I’m feeling like your personal Frankenstein monster, here. I can put on my own lipstick.”

“Uh-uh.” Cilla came back from her makeup drawer with a lipstick the color of ripe cherries. “I want you to get the full impact.”

The full impact was what Trish was worried about as she worked to keep her mouth still under the tickle of Cilla’s lipstick brush. Simple, low-key and in the background, that was the way she liked it.

Cilla finished and set the lip color down, then she stepped back with her hands on her hips and studied her friend. “Now that’s a sight to see,” she said in satisfaction, and then laughed. “That was the most scared I’ve seen you look since that time we ordered a male stripper for your birthday.”

“Just tell me I don’t look like Tammy Faye.”

“You don’t look like Tammy Faye,” Cilla assured her. “Okay, upsy daisy, but don’t look at the mirror in here.” She covered Trish’s eyes until they got into the bedroom. “I want you to get the total effect all at once.”

“I’ll get the total effect if I trip and break my neck.”

“Almost there, almost there…okay, you’re in front of the mirror. Are you ready?”

Despite herself, Trish felt a little tingle of anticipation. “So show me.”

“Ta-da,” Cilla sang and dropped her hands.

For a moment, all Trish could do was stare. And a gorgeous stranger in the mirror stared back at her. The other “her” stood with a silky waterfall of absolutely smooth red-gold hair flowing to her waist and a mouth as tempting as chocolate. The features that had always seemed too delicate in comparison to her sister’s sun-tossed California blond looks were suddenly vivid and underscored with some special importance. Expert makeup played up the hollows in her cheeks and rendered her slate-gray eyes dark and somehow mysterious. “Wow.” She raised her hands to the soft strands of her hair. “Wow,” she said again.

“Do you like it?”

“I’m…wow, Cilla, really. I’m amazed.” With a little surge of excitement, Trish turned to and fro to get the full effect. And, she had to admit, in the outfit she wore, it was some effect indeed. The evening required a bold statement, Cilla had decreed. Digging in her closet, she’d come up with her best studded-leather dominatrix look. To Trish’s amazement, she’d actually been able to zip it up, although taking a deep breath made her breasts swell upward alarmingly. The leather bustier molded her waist, the skirt fit her like a second skin. Fishnet tights and high-heeled red ankle boots completed the ensemble. It might have been couture, but it looked like something out of an S&M club.

And it looked really fabulous.

Still, she wasn’t sure she was such a good judge of party wear. “Are you sure this isn’t a little over the top?”

“Are you kidding? At a do like this?” Cilla sniffed. “You’ll be tame. Too bad we couldn’t get you a whip,” she added thoughtfully. “It would add that little extra touch.”

“For that ‘you’ve been a bad boy lately’ look?”

“Like I said, you never know. You might enjoy it.”

Trish rolled her eyes. “Hardly. Although it feels like the person I’m dressed up as would.” She turned to inspect herself from behind.

“That’s the fun part, isn’t it?” Cilla said cheerfully, slipping into her nurse’s costume. “Haven’t you ever wanted to do that, be someone else just for a night?”

Trish’s standard answer was that who she was would have to do. If she wasn’t one-hundred-percent thrilled with life, that was only to be expected. She’d shed the crazy expectations of being a siren, of having men tumble at her feet, of finding true love with Mr. Right. She just wasn’t built for it. Her friends could tell her she was a hopeless romantic all they liked. Wanting love and believing that it had any place in her life were two very different things.

For one night, though, maybe it could be different. Maybe for this night she could be someone else, see how the other half lived.

Slowly the corners of her mouth curved up into a smile and she vamped in the mirror. “Be someone else, li’l ol’ me?”

“Why not?” Cilla slicked her dark-gold hair back behind her ears and hung a stethoscope around her neck. “In this getup, you could have yourself a time. What do you think?”

Trish grinned at her reflection. “I think we’d better get to the party.”



FORTY MINUTES LATER, as they stood outside Sabrina’s house, the notion seemed altogether less brilliant. Sabrina lived in Venice, a small neighborhood south of Santa Monica. An ambitious developer in the thirties had built a neighborhood of houses along a series of narrow, criss-crossing canals dug into the California soil. Now, newly dredged and fashionable, the neighborhood held echoes of the real Venice or Amsterdam, with its small arched bridges and houses next to the water.

It definitely didn’t go with dominatrix-wear. “I can’t believe I thought this was a good idea,” Trish murmured, pulling futilely at her skirt as they made their way up the walkway to Sabrina’s house. It was one thing to be wearing the outfit in Cilla’s bedroom; it was another to wear it in public. Not even the silk duster she’d thrown over the top helped.

“Stop picking at your clothes,” Cilla scolded.

“It’s too tight.”

“It’s Gaultier. It’s supposed to fit like that.”

“How come I’ve never seen you in it, then?”

Cilla shrugged and twirled her stethoscope playfully. “You know couture. You can get away with wearing it once, but that’s about it.”

“So this is my one big chance?”

“Make the most of it,” Cilla advised, then groped in her candy-colored Louis Vuitton Murakami bag as her cell phone burbled for attention. “Hello?”

Trish walked a few steps away, adjusting her bustier. Okay, so maybe she felt like the lead actress in some 1960s French sex farce. She just needed to get into character. It wouldn’t be her walking into the party, it would be her alter ego, the one who loved being outrageous and living at the center of the whirlwind. It would be okay.

“You have got to be kidding,” Cilla burst out from behind her. “What happened to the escort? On second thought, I don’t care. Send her a limo. I’ve got a party to go to.” Cilla paced a few steps, tension vibrating in every line of her body. “All right, all right, fine,” she said shortly. “I’m in Venice. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” She ended the call and cursed viciously.

Trish stared. “What was that about?”

Cilla turned to face her. “Apparently our designer for the couture show tomorrow isn’t satisfied with our events coordinator picking her up at the airport and taking her to dinner. She’s insisting that I do it.”

“Why you?”

Cilla blew out a breath of frustration. “We’ve met once or twice at her shows.”

“Not to mention the fact that your family owns Danforth’s and the entire Forth’s chain and has more money than God.”

“Please.” Cilla rolled her eyes. “The show coordinator says she’s threatening to walk. I don’t really have a choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve got to go get her.”

“But…but what about the party?” Trish asked with a spurt of panic. “I thought we were going together.”

“I have to do it,” Cilla said apologetically. “It’s only for a little while. If necessary I’ll haul her back here—there is no way I’m missing Sabrina’s documentary.”

“Maybe I can go with you,” Trish tried, despising the tone in her voice.

Cilla shook her head and buttoned up her coat to hide most of her costume. “I can only imagine the fit she’d have if you show up in Gaultier. Prima donna doesn’t begin to cover it. Besides, someone has to tell Sabrina. Hey, you look fabulous.” She gave Trish a quick hug. “Go in and find the rest of the gang. You’ll be fine.”

Trish watched Cilla hurry off to her car and she glanced down the alley to the canal bridge glimmering at the end. If she could only snap her fingers and be back in her nice, quiet apartment for the night. She’d light some candles, pour a glass of wine, and maybe watch a movie or work on the screenplay she was writing.

Instead, shyness was going to smother her in rooms full of strangers, while she tried to look as though she had something more to do than go to the bathroom again and again because it was a place to hide for a few minutes. Home, even if she had to walk, sounded infinitely more appealing.

But Sabrina was expecting her. More to the point, Sabrina was expecting them, and Trish really ought to go explain.

And one way or another, she had to find a ride home or at least get a taxi.

All the good reasons in the world didn’t mask the fact that walking through Sabrina’s door was about the least appetizing prospect she could imagine. If she’d been in her normal clothes, it would have been bad enough, but going inside all alone, wearing the most revealing outfit she’d ever worn in her life? Looking at it from above, the bustier was outrageously low-cut. Her breasts billowed up out of it like newly risen bread. Cilla couldn’t expect her to do this, Trish thought desperately. What if she were the only person in costume? What if she looked as ridiculous as she felt? The memory of the Trish she’d seen in Cilla’s mirror receded to a pinpoint and the Trish in the now just stood on the porch and swallowed, feeling miserably conspicuous.

Sabrina, she reminded herself. This was Sabrina’s special night and she wanted her friends there to celebrate with her. It wasn’t about Trish, it was about Sabrina.

It was about being a good friend.

“Oh, don’t be such a wuss,” Trish muttered to herself. No one was going to care what she looked like. They’d probably all be too busy worrying about themselves. Besides, odds were she’d never even see most of these people again. “Just do it,” she told herself fiercely.

And rang the bell.

When the door opened, though, it wasn’t Sabrina there. It was a sandy-haired boy who looked no more than sixteen or seventeen, the top of his head approximately at her eye level.

She couldn’t possibly in her panic have walked up to the wrong door, Trish thought wildly. Please, God, let her be at the right house.

“Wow,” he said appreciatively. “I guess you’re here for the party. My name’s Lee. Wanna run away and elope?”

Despite herself, she laughed. He looked barely old enough to drive, let alone put the moves on her. “Give me a minute or two to get the prenup in order.”

“Fair enough. Come on in and we can discuss it.” He stepped back and swung the door wide.

Sabrina’s living room surged with activity. A woman in neck-to-ankle red latex was tangoing with a man wearing a dog collar. A Wild-West saloon girl leaned over a shirtless construction worker sprawled on a couch. There were hookers, police officers, Catholic schoolgirls, sheiks, a pizza-delivery boy, and even what Trish assumed was a Marquis de Sade in a pale-blue frock coat and wig.

“Let me take your coat,” Lee said, whisking it off her before she could protest.

And then she stood in front of the room in just her outfit.

One head after another turned to look at Trish. She stifled the urge to flee. Maybe a seam had split, she speculated, feeling her face heat. Maybe one of her breasts had popped out entirely. It would be just her luck. Or maybe her outfit was just too much, period. Granted, most people were in costume, but she hadn’t really seen anyone in quite as outrageous a getup as hers. Then, across the room, she saw a sleek, exotic-looking woman dressed in eye-popping leather.

With a start, Trish realized it was her reflection, thrown back at her from an ornate mirror hanging on the wall.

Giddiness rushed through her. Sabrina’s guests weren’t staring because she looked ridiculous, they were staring because she looked good. Gaping wouldn’t do, and yet Trish wanted nothing more than to rush over to the looking glass and drink it all in, gawk at her image until she could convince herself that it was really her. For tonight, anyway.

But oh, what a night it would be.

Sabrina’s home was built vertically, the rooms rising around a central atrium, each side offset half a story from the other so that the rooms stairstepped up from one another. Trish glanced up and found her gaze snagged by that of the Marquis de Sade, who leaned carelessly on the waist-high barrier of the open loft overlooking the living room. Thin leather strips dangled from the ebony handle of his flail. An ornate silver mask covered his face from the hairline of his white-powdered wig to below his nose. Trish could see only his mouth, defined by the clean lines of a modified Vandyke. And she could see his eyes, looking out through the holes in the mask.

Staring directly at her.

Trish glanced to either side to see if he was looking at someone else, and then back up to find his gaze still pinned to hers. Something skittered through her veins. The thing was not to get embarrassed. She looked good, she knew it. Better than good. Maybe that was why he was staring, or maybe he was admiring her outfit. Maybe he was into Gaultier. Perhaps, she thought with a smile, he thought he was looking at a kindred spirit.

Lee the doorman nudged her. “So, can I get you a drink?”

“What?” Trish blinked, dragging her gaze away from the Marquis. “Um, actually I should probably find Sabrina first.”

“My cousin? I saw her a couple minutes ago. I’ll show you.”

“Are you even old enough to be at a party like this?” Trish asked, squinting at him.

“Are you kidding?” He gave her an affronted look. “I’m at UCLA. I’m almost nineteen.”

It wouldn’t do to smile. “Oops, my mistake.”

“I can think of one or two ways you can make it up to me.”

She gave a startled laugh. “Sorry, cradle-robbing is not my thing.”

“Once you try it, baby, you’ll never go back.” He gave her what was probably meant to be a roguish wink, although he had to narrow both eyes a bit to do it.

“I’ll let you know if I change my mind,” Trish promised, struggling to keep a straight face. She tensed, though, when he started toward the staircase that zigzagged its way up the side of the atrium. Toward the Marquis. “Where are you going?”

Lee glanced back at her. “You wanted to go to Sabrina. She’s up on the roof with some friends, I think.”

The Marquis watched her walk across the room. And he wasn’t the only one, she realized uncomfortably, catching a head or two turning out of the corner of her eye. She glanced again at her image in the mirror across the room. That’s who you are tonight, she reminded herself and laughed. Work it. A cowboy with his shirt unbuttoned to his navel winked at her and hefted the lariat he held. “I’ve been really bad, mistress. Want to tie me up and teach me a lesson?”

Trish gave him a mock severe look. “It’ll take more than just rope to teach you a proper lesson.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Lee led her up the risers of the stairs. She could feel the gaze of the Marquis on her. Being watched like that added an exaggerated level of self-awareness to her every move. She climbed the stairs, knowing he was studying her. She pushed back the spill of her hair, knowing he would see. Then the plaster bulk of the next flight of stairs crossed between them, blocking her view of the Marquis, at least until she nearly reached the landing.

Anticipation had her wondering what it would be like to see him up close. Then suddenly she was stepping onto the landing at the level of the loft, practically close enough to reach out and touch him. A current of air whispered over her bare shoulders and brought out goose bumps on her skin. She swore she saw his eyes darken. He stared at her, running his fingers slowly through the knotted thongs of his flail.

It suddenly seemed outrageously erotic.

Their gazes locked with the snapping jolt of static electricity. Her footsteps slowed. Something about the fact that the mask obscured most of his face focused her attention on the lean line of his jaw and the hint of a cleft in his chin. As though he knew what she was looking at, one corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. He brought two fingertips to his lips and blew her a mocking kiss.

Trish flushed and started up the next flight of stairs.

And finally she was at roof level and stepping out into the cool night air. A small knot of people stood at the far end, looking out at the lights of the city. A glance at them calmed the nerves that danced in her belly, because she knew these people almost as well as she knew herself.

The laughing woman with the cap of dark hair was Sabrina, and at her side her lover, Stef. Irrepressible Kelly waved her hand around as she told a story with the help of her boyfriend Kev, who, as usual, looked as if he’d been hacking at his hair with garden shears. Delaney, still the corn silk blonde, hooted. Maybe the generic-looking man at her side was her date, Trish speculated. Or maybe not. More likely he was there with cool, self-possessed Paige. He had that innocuous, trust-fund-preppie look that most of her men seemed to have.

They might all be older and wiser, but the Sex & Supper Club was still together, and just as close as they’d ever been. She would have walked through fire for any one of them.

After all, she’d walked into the party alone, hadn’t she?

Sabrina swung toward them in the dimness. “Hey, Elliot, who’s your friend?” she asked casually.

Trish gave Lee a sidelong glance. “Elliot?”

He blushed. “My friends call me Lee.”

“Oh my God, it’s Trish!” Kelly yelped, suddenly breaking away from the group and rushing over to Trish. “I didn’t recognize you. You look amazing.”

In an instant, Trish was surrounded. “Look at your hair,” Delaney said, running her fingers through the silky strands. “You look like something out of a Vogue spread.”

Trish couldn’t stop the grin. “Cilla did it. You know her, just some old rag from her closet.”

“Yeah, an old rag that cost about as much as a small car. So who knew you were a size three?” Kelly marveled.

“Size five, Cilla says,” Trish corrected in embarrassment.

“Like that’s any more real than a three,” Kelly said unconcernedly. “Where is Cilla, anyway?”

“She had to go take care of something for her fashion show tomorrow. She said she’ll be here in a couple of hours. Where’s Thea?”

“She’s got the flu, poor baby,” Sabrina contributed. “Called me sounding like a seal. Not feeling her friskiest.” She gave Trish a mischievous look. “So, the real Trish at last?”

Trish grinned. “It’s not the real Trish, it’s my alter ego.”

Kelly snorted. “Are you kidding? You could look this good all the time.”

“Oh, yeah. I can just imagine how thrilled my sister would be if I showed up at the office for my list of errands and things wearing leather and studs.”

“Seriously, though,” Kelly persisted. “Forget the leather. With very little effort you could look amazing enough to have men eating out of your hands.”

She wasn’t at all sure that she wanted to be that conspicuous. “I think you’re exaggerating.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sabrina countered. “Let’s ask Elliot.”

“Lee,” Trish corrected her in an undertone.

Sabrina raised her eyebrows. “Lee?”

“Cut him some slack,” Trish murmured, “he’s trying to grow up. Everybody should be allowed to change.”

A smile stole over Sabrina’s face. “You’re right,” she said, and swung around to look at her cousin, who was talking with Stef and Kev. “Hey, Lee,” she called, “what do you think of Trish, here?”

He glanced over. “Hey, I wanted to get married. She was the one who shot me down.”

Sabrina turned back to the group. “There, see?”

Trish rolled her eyes. “He’s just a kid, Sabrina.”

“Well, we’ll just have to take a bigger poll. The casting director for Runway Dreams is here somewhere.”

Kelly raised an eyebrow. “Rob Carroll? You do run with a hot crowd.”

“He’s the Mr. L.A. right now,” Sabrina said.

“And sleeps with anything that moves,” quipped Kelly.

“Picky, picky. We’ll find another man. Shoot, my famous cousin said he’d stop by later.”

“You mean me?” Lee called over.

“No, my other superstar cousin,” Sabrina said fondly.

“You mean Ty Ramsay, box-office hero?” Kelly asked. “Wait a minute. I thought you swore you’d never let him near anyone you cared about.”

Sabrina gave a bashful look. “I shouldn’t have said that. I was just ticked because he’d played hit-and-run with a girlfriend of mine.”

“Your friends ought to know better. You’ve warned us often enough,” Paige pointed out.

“He’s actually a pretty cool guy as long as you’re not dating him,” Sabrina said. “His problem is that he’s just a terminal romantic with ADD.”

“You know, I saw him interviewed one time about Megan Barnes back when they were engaged,” Delaney said. “The way he talked about her was really sweet. He seemed totally sincere.”

“He is totally sincere,” Sabrina said, “fatally so, at least at the time. It’s just a month or so later when the buzz wears off and he comes back down to earth that’s the problem.”

“Okay, well, who else have you got?” Kelly demanded.

“There’s Kyle Franklin. He’s—”

“In the interest of the brotherhood, I’ve got to break this up,” interrupted Kev, walking up behind Kelly to slide his hands around her waist. “Lay off the poor guys. We can’t all have flawless taste and judgment.” He kissed her ear and Kelly gave a goofy smile.

“But give us credit,” Stef said, coming up beside Sabrina to tangle his fingers in hers. “We usually figure it out.”

“That you do,” Sabrina said, beaming at him.

“Don’t you guys start doing that cute couple thing,” Delaney warned, turning to include Paige and her date, as well, who weren’t even remotely doing cute. “You’re not going to win me over. Some of us are just fine and dandy being single. In fact, some of us like it.” She linked arms with Trish and gave a naughty grin. “Now if you’ll excuse us bachelorettes, we’re going downstairs to play the field.”




2


TRISH STOOD in Sabrina’s loft, where the caterers had set up the sushi bar, idly sipping sake and staring out the glass wall into the night. Delaney had drifted off to dance. Normally, then, Trish would have started planning her exit but not this time. She’d never been to a party quite like this one. The hours floated by in a haze of laughter. Every time she stopped moving, she was drawn into conversation. Men smiled, flirted, and it didn’t matter that she was too nervous to talk much because they did the talking for her.

And always, always when she looked up, the Marquis was watching her with that enigmatic smile. Somehow watching him watch her made her savor it all the more. Would he approach? she wondered. Just a matter of time, the words rose in her mind, and she laughed. Whenever she’d heard women say that, she’d wondered how they could be so absurdly confident, how it was that they didn’t understand how capricious romance could be. Suddenly, though, half intoxicated with her own power, she understood.

Trish raised her sake cup to her lips and tasted only air. It was empty, she realized. Turning to the table that held the carafes of different sake, she studied the information cards and reached out.

“It’s bad luck to pour your own sake.”

She knew it was him before she saw the blue brocade at her elbow. Somehow she’d known he’d have a voice like that, deep, with just a faint whisper of roughness. It was the kind of voice that could mesmerize a woman, the kind of voice that put her on her guard. Taking her time, Trish moved to face him.

And saw the sea green of his eyes.

When she’d been in fifth grade, Trish had gotten hit in the stomach during a dodge-ball game. It had been like this, that sudden, helpless sense of all the air rushing from her lungs, that shocking, indisputable contact. From across the room, he’d intrigued; this close, he riveted. His eyes should have been cool, with their mix of blue and green and gray. Somehow, though, they shone with an intensity, a heat that left her staring helplessly back.

Then they crinkled in humor and released her.

Trish gave a shaky laugh and handed him her cup. “I’ll pour yours if you pour mine,” she said lightly.

“At your service, mistress,” he said, with a bow. “And which would you like? We’ve got bichu wajo, if you like herb overtones,” he read off the information card. “Or how about koi no kawa? That translates as ‘love river,’ by the way,” he added, lifting the carafe temptingly.

“How could I say no to a name like that?” she asked, hit with a sudden, almost unrecognizable urge to flirt.

He poured a tasting into her cup. “I’ll take that as a good sign.”

It was strange being so close to him, Trish thought, and yet somehow familiar, perhaps because they’d been watching each other since she’d arrived. The mask focused her attention on his mouth, which was taut enough to make her certain he was strong, enticing enough to make her wonder what it would feel like to kiss him.

And wonder what his face would look like uncovered.

She sipped the wine and nodded, holding out her cup for more. She watched as he filled her glass. Sandy-brown hair, maybe, or blond, she thought, judging by the Vandyke and the light hairs on the back of his wrist. He had the long fingers and corded tendons of some artisan skilled with his hands, and he passed her the sake with a careless grace.

Trish raised her eyes from her cup to his face. “And you, my lord? What would please you?”

“Choosing just one thing would be the trick,” he said, rubbing his knuckles against his jaw. “And will you obey my command if I do?”

Butterflies tickled her stomach. “A dominatrix serving the Marquis? It’s sort of like an irresistible force meeting an immovable object, isn’t it?”

He considered. “Something of an impasse, it’s true.”

“I suppose we could arm wrestle.”

“Hardly seems fair to you.”

“Don’t be too sure,” she disagreed. “All that whipping keeps me in shape.”

His smile widened. “So I see. Maybe I’ll just settle for talking you into pouring me some sake and coming out on the deck.”

She felt a little self-conscious as he watched her choose a cup and pour the wine, but there was pleasure in being the object of his attention. “Your drink, my lord,” she said, inclining her head.

A corner of his mouth twitched as he took the cup she offered and clicked it against hers. “To unexpected pleasures.”

Trish flushed. “Unexpected pleasures,” she echoed.

Outside, the air was faintly cool with the first breath of fall. The dark water of the canal that ran along in front of Sabrina’s house reflected the stars. The trees glimmered with fairy lights, the same winking dots that outlined the curved stone bridges that crossed the water. “It doesn’t seem real. It’s like a little slice of Italy, isn’t it?” Trish leaned on the railing. “Only in L.A.”

“Land of play-acting?” he asked, walking up to stand beside her.

“Indeed.” He was taller than she was, Trish realized, even though she was wearing heels. She caught a whiff of something clean that might have been cologne, or perhaps just soap. Whatever it was, it smelled all male. Adrenaline sang in her veins. “And are you play-acting tonight, Marquis?”

“No more than you. You wear it well, by the way. It almost looks real.”

She sipped her sake and gave him an amused look. “Maybe it is.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Maybe I worked late and didn’t have time to change.”

“So you came straight over here exhausted from all that whipping and getting your feet kissed?” Behind the mask, his eyes gleamed with humor. “Just lost track of time, did you?”

“You know how it is,” Trish said flippantly. “When you love what you do, it doesn’t seem like work.”

He studied her, his head tilted to one side, then shook it briskly. “Nope, don’t buy it. I don’t see you getting off on spanking some balding, overweight CEO.”

“Ah, but that’s just it. You just don’t know, do you?” She propped a hand on the wide, wooden railing and slid the other down the curve of her waist. “’Neath this quiet exterior could lie the soul of a committed disciplinarian,” she said, riding the giddy rush of fun. Perhaps it was the anonymity of the mask that set her free. If she could see his whole face, he’d probably be the kind of good-looking guy who would make her freeze up. Dressed as he was, he was just a pair of hot eyes and a silky voice, a presence in the night. “Just wait until you’re in my clutches and don’t have a choice.”

Immediately, he seemed much closer. “Oh? Am I going to be in your clutches tonight?”

Her breathing tightened. “I suppose that’s up to you.” A beat went by.

“Mmm. The Marquis de Sade as a submissive? No, there would be riots in S&M land.”

Amusement bubbled up and quickly the tension evaporated. “You could tell them you’re finding your feminine side.”

The Marquis laughed. “I’d prefer your feminine side.”

It felt different, Trish realized abruptly. She wasn’t uncomfortable, she wasn’t tongue-tied. She wasn’t miserable and hoping she could leave. She was actually having fun.

And she was turned on.

“Does that mean you’re asking me to take you on as a client, after all?”

“Brings us back to that irresistible force problem, doesn’t it?”

“No dominatrix worth her salt would let a client wear a mask without her permission. Take it off so I can see your face, and then I’ll decide.”

“You want me to take it off?” He set down his sake cup and raised one hand toward his face.

Anticipation had her pulse thudding a little faster. “I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

“That’s less about the looks and more about the person, isn’t it? Image shouldn’t be everything, even in L.A.”

“That’s usually my line,” she said ruefully.

He inclined his head. “Thanks for the loan.”

“Still, it’s hardly fair that you get to see my face and I don’t get to see yours.”

He chuckled softly. “Perhaps I have my reasons.”

“You can always put it back on.” The urge to see his face was fast becoming a craving.

He just drained his sake cup. “It’s a slippery slope, mistress. Some things cannot be undone.”

“Coward,” she mocked him.

A corner of his mouth tugged up in amusement and he glanced down at the flail that stuck out of his pocket. “Careful what you call a man who’s holding a whip.”

Trish laughed. “Good point. In that case, can I get you some more sake, my lord?”

“Only if you promise to continue our conversation when you return.”

“It might be bad for my reputation if I follow your orders.” She didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay and bask in this new feeling.

“Look at it as coincidence. What I want just happens to be what you feel like doing.” He reached out for her hand and brought it to his lips.

It was the contrast that did it. Cool air, warm lips. Rough wood, soft skin. The touch of another where there hadn’t been one in so long. For an instant, it was as though every nerve in her body were centered in the small patch of skin over her knuckles and she could only absorb it. She thought more, and I want and don’t stop.

He lowered her hand and closed her fingers around the ceramic sake cup.

Her alter ego no doubt would have had something sexy and provocative to say. Trish considered it a triumph that she remained upright and mobile.

The Marquis gave her a mischievous look. “Sake?” he asked.

She walked back inside, closing the sliding door behind her.

It was two different worlds, the quiet, private dimness of the deck outside and the warmth and hubbub of indoors. Trish turned to the sake bar, looking out into the night to see the Marquis watching her. She was trembling a bit, and yet talking with him, being with him didn’t tie her in knots the way it did with other men. It was exciting but in a way that made her feel larger than life, as though she were the best possible version of herself.

Shaking her head at her fancy, she reached out for the sake carafe.

“I been a bad boy, mistress,” slurred a voice behind her. It was the cowboy from earlier, looking a bit the worse for wear and more than a little drunk. “You should dis’pline me.”

“Sorry, I’m off the clock,” Trish said briefly, turning to glance back out at the Marquis.

“You’re not dressed to be off’a clock. You’re dressed to find a man, aren’cha,” the cowboy said swaying, making her look at him again. “Well, I’m your man.”

“I don’t need one, thanks,” she said with a forced laugh.

“’Course you need one.” He moved close enough that she could smell the liquor on his breath.

The sushi chef had gone off to resupply, she realized. Though she heard music and the hum of conversation downstairs, the loft was empty. She searched for a way to shut him down but all the quick flippancy of her alter ego had suddenly deserted her. And the cowboy showed zero sign of going away. “I’m not looking for company,” Trish said stiffly, trying to ignore the way he was staring at her breasts.

“Lissen to you. Oh, man, you’re the kinda woman gets a guy right here,” he said, grabbing his crotch. “You know, y’look so hot but then you just cut it off.”

The effervescence she’d been feeling evaporated abruptly. Suddenly, she felt exposed in her scandalous party clothes. With confidence, they were high adventure; without, they merely made her vulnerable. She wished for a T-shirt, a sweatshirt, the loosest, biggest, bulkiest clothing she could find. She wished she were hidden, or a hundred miles away. Instead, she wrapped her arms around herself. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

But he stood close, trapping her against the sake table. “Y’not gonna talk to me? Y’ put on that li’l bit a nothin’ and come on and then act like I shouldn’ notice?” His voice rose a little.

She was in Sabrina’s house, Trish reminded herself, and there was a room full of people downstairs. She was perfectly safe, she just needed to find a good way to end the conversation, and then leave. She kept her voice calm—strained, perhaps, but calm. “Look, I’m sure you’re a nice guy,” she began.

“I look atcha and I’m a walkin’ hardon. I—”

“Are you ready to go look at that Warhol?” the Marquis asked from behind her. His fingers slipped around her elbow and Trish could have wept from relief.

“I’d love to.”

“Excuse us,” he said to the cowboy. Trish couldn’t help noticing that he had several inches in height and a couple of inches in shoulders on the cowboy, who stared back at him in confusion. “I said excuse us,” the Marquis repeated in a hard voice and Trish let him steer her to the stairs.

“Were we talking about a Warhol?” she asked in a low tone as they descended.

“No. You just looked as though you weren’t particularly enjoying your conversation with Cowboy Bob, there. I figured I’d give you an excuse to leave if you wanted one. No, don’t look up, he’s still watching you.”

“God,” she said unsteadily, “I know how to pick ’em.”

“I don’t believe that was your choice.” He turned at the living-room level and steered her down another half flight of stairs to the dining room. “In through here,” the Marquis said, guiding her with a gentle touch in the small of her back.

They stood in the warm glow of Sabrina’s kitchen, away from the music and the crowd. The caterers had set up in the garage, so for the moment all was quiet. The Marquis watched her as she leaned against the counter, rubbing her arms. “Something to drink?” he asked.

Trish looked at him blankly. Quickly, he began opening cabinet doors until he found tumblers.

“You shouldn’t be going through her cabinets,” Trish said faintly, but she accepted the iced water that he pressed on her.

“I think she’ll forgive me.”

The feel of the cold glass in her fingers made her shiver.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “What the hell did he say to you?”

Trish shook her head and took a deep breath. “Nothing much. It’s okay.” A woman like Delaney or Kelly would have told the cowboy to go to hell and gone about their business with no more than a passing thought. Why was it she’d never learned how? Don’t think about it, she ordered herself, and with conscious thought dropped her hands back to rest on the edges of the counter at her sides. “Thanks for not making a scene.”

“Fights tend to lead to broken furniture and unhappy hostesses,” he said mildly. “I try to avoid them.”

“You’ve been very nice.”

“You make it easy.” His eyes had glints of gold in them, she saw, as they looked back at her from behind the mask. The seconds stretched out. He cleared his throat. “There really is a Warhol over in the dining room. Do you want to see it?”

Trish gave a shaky laugh. “Sure.”



“SO I NEVER KNEW Warhol did abstracts,” Trish said, sitting on the kitchen counter and dangling her legs. “I just knew the pop art stuff.” She took a drink of her water.

The Marquis had taken his frock coat off and tossed it over a chair in the breakfast nook. Now he leaned against the counter next to her. “Yep, Michelangelo gets remembered for the Sistine Chapel and old Andy gets soup cans and Marilyn Monroe. There’s a legacy for you—soup.”

“It could be worse,” she explained, watching him roll up his sleeves over sinewy forearms. Watching him in his mask. “George Borden’s claim to fame was evaporated milk.”

“And then there was the toilet designer, Thomas Crapper—”

“Who we remember for obvious reasons,” she finished with a laugh. It was good to be talking idle foolishness. The memory of the drunken cowboy was disappearing, replaced by the easy presence of the Marquis.

“I suppose it would be worthwhile to leave your name behind on something you did,” he said thoughtfully. “What would you want to be remembered for?”

“You first.”

He pondered it. “Self-mowing lawns, I think. I’d gold plate my lawn mower and put it on a pedestal as yard art.”

“Not big on yard work?”

“Summer afternoons should be for drinking beer and sitting in a hammock, not for going at the grass with a freakishly loud machine.” He took a sip of his water. “And what about you?”

Watching him swallow scattered her thoughts for a moment. “Um, I don’t know…never-ending hot water,” she threw out.

“The endless shower?”

“Exactly. It would stay hot long enough for anything. You’d have time to condition your hair or scrub your back or…” The sudden visceral image of rubbing up against a slippery, soapy male body stopped her short.

She glanced up to find the Marquis’s eyes on her. “Or?” he prompted.

“Just get really hot,” she managed, then flushed. “I mean…” She cast about for conversation. “So how do you know Sabrina?”

His laughing eyes were trained on hers. “Oh, we’ve known each other since we were kids.”

“Really? Does that make you another rich Hollywood baby?”

“Not at Sabrina’s level. How do you know her?”

“College. We met working on a play.”

“What was your role?”

Trish snorted. “Me, an actor? No way. I’m happier behind the scenes.”

“You’re center stage in that outfit.”

“Don’t believe everything you see.” And she had to remember that she wasn’t her alter ego, that she’d be going back to plain old Trish after the party was over. That she wouldn’t have a sexy man dancing attendance on her and making her laugh.

“So what did you do on the play?” He pulled at his complicated cravat, untying it.

“Script doctor. You’re losing your look, you know.”

“Yeah, but I’m much more comfortable.” He pulled off the cravat and unbuttoned the top buttons on his shirt so that she could see the strong column of his throat.

“I know, I know, image isn’t everything.” With his shirt loose he looked amazingly sexy, like the lord of the manor just before he set about seducing the scullery maid.

“Hello?”

She’d drifted off, Trish realized. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Is that what you do now?” he repeated, rolling up his sleeves. “Write scripts?”

“In my dreams. I work for my sister. She’s got a home concierge business. You know, grocery shopping, picking up dry cleaning, you name it.”

“We do it all?”

“That was our old motto. Now it’s Amber’s Assistants: Servicing the Stars.”

He laughed, seemingly before he could help himself. “Can’t you get arrested for that?”

“I know, I know,” she said ruefully, “but once Amber gets an idea in her head, she’s hard to stop. Anyway, ever since the anesthesiologist from Boston Memorial signed on, she’s been hot for the Hollywood vote.”

“If you’d go to work dressed like that, Hollywood would probably be hot for you, too.”

His appraising look made a little pulse of arousal surge through her. “Oh, yeah. I can just see myself dropping by the vet’s office dressed like this.”

“You could tell them you were doing a show.”

She shrugged. “It’s a living until I find something better. What about you? What do you do?”

“What do I do?” he repeated. “That’s a good question.”

“I know you’re not a professional Marquis de Sade.”

He studied her for a moment. “Well, it depends on how you define professional. Actually I—”

A sudden commotion came from the living room, and over it rose Sabrina’s voice. “Okay, guys, show time. Everyone into the living room. True Sex is starting.”

The Marquis looked at her. “I think we’re being summoned.”

All the party guests were clustered around the wide-screen TV. Trish might have been tall, and taller still in her heels, but in front of her rose a nearly impenetrable wall of heads and shoulders. She made a noise of frustration.

“Over here,” the Marquis whispered, pulling her to the stairs across the room. “It’s not close, but at least you’ll be able to see something. Stand on the step.” His hand was warm under her elbow, guiding her onto the stair. She felt an abrupt, fierce longing for a touch that was more than just a hug among friends.

And the documentary began.

Bare skin. Naked bodies. Unapologetic sexuality. Sabrina had vowed that her documentary was going to be something new and she was right. It wasn’t cold and academic, it was natural, unguarded, often undignified.

And at times, completely and utterly erotic.

Trish watched the screen, but her awareness was focused on the man standing behind her. All she could think about was the heat, that magical warmth of another human body. She watched a couple take a lap dancing lesson, the man kissing his partner exuberantly at the end, and the wistful desire for the same kind of intimacy rose up in her. So many years, she thought, it had been so many years since anyone had touched her like that. She swayed lightly, hit by the sudden, intense need to lean back against the Marquis.

On the screen, the documentary switched to a couple playing with light bondage. “It’s an incredible turn-on, when you know you can trust that person enough to let go,” said a woman in a black peekaboo bra and G-string, holding hands with her partner. “I know I’m safe, I know if I say ‘red,’ everything stops. And it frees me up to let go.”

“It’s all about trust,” agreed her partner, shirtless, in leather trousers. “It’s about watching her body, seeing what turns her on and knowing when to stop.”

On the screen, the woman lay on the bed and stretched her hands toward the bedposts. At the touch of the silk ropes, she shivered a little and stretched in arousal. “There’s something amazingly erotic about just giving up control and worrying only about what I’m feeling,” she said in voice-over as her companion trailed his fingers over her nipples. “I just let him take me away.”

What would it be like, Trish wondered—no responsibility, no self-consciousness. No worry about what she was supposed to do. Bondage had always seemed like an alien concept but suddenly she could understand. A chance to just relax and abandon herself to the touch of a lover. A chance to thrill herself with the fantasy.

“Puts an interesting spin on it, doesn’t it?” the Marquis murmured to her, curving his fingers around her shoulders and leaning so close she could feel the warmth of his breath.

An interesting spin, indeed, Trish thought. Suddenly she felt suffocated. She wanted out, she wanted air.

She wanted to be alone with him.

Without a word, she stepped around him and began to mount the stairs. She didn’t have to look to see if he was following her.

She knew he would.

The night was clear, the sky speckled with stars, at least the handful that you could see in L.A. The rooftop was deserted. Trish walked to a corner and leaned on the concrete barrier to look out at the city lights. She felt the same anxiousness she did when on a roller coaster, just before the cars begin to rush headlong down the first drop.

The door clicked as he closed it behind him. Trish didn’t turn, though she could feel his presence over her shoulder as he neared.

“Why the sudden rush to get outside?”

Trish shrugged. “It was stuffy in that room. I wanted some fresh air.” She only waited a second before asking, “Why did you follow me?”

“Maybe there really is something amazingly erotic about giving up control. Don’t you want to find out?”

In the humming silence, she turned to find him smiling at her, a wicked grin on his face. Somewhere deep inside, in some primitive part of her, a slow beat began to pound. “Take off your mask.”

He leaned sideways on the barrier next to her and lightly stroked her bare arm with his fingertips. “I think it’s better this way.”

“What are you hiding?” She stared at his mouth, wondering what it would feel like on hers.

“Perhaps I’m a wanted criminal, laying low for the night.”

“I’d almost believe that.” Under his fingertips, her skin began to heat.

“Of course, that makes you my accomplice. What’s your name, just so I know for the trial?”

“Trish.” She shifted her body a bit toward his. “And yours?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I kind of liked my lord.”

“My lord?”

“Or master. Don’t worry, I don’t really get pleasure out of causing pain. Although I do have to confess to a certain fascination with my flail tonight,” he added, running his fingers slowly through the strands as though absorbing the texture. “There’s something about the feel of leather against bare skin that’s incredibly hot.” He stroked the strands of leather over her fingers. “Don’t you think?”

Trish stared into his eyes, dark and unreadable, and shivered.

Then he moved his hand and ran the knotted leather straps over the soft, bare skin of her shoulder. “You’re very sensitive there,” he said softly. “You’re shaking.” He trailed the strands around the slender column of her neck.

She could feel herself tremble as she’d done earlier, in cold, in arousal, in excitement. He traced a finger where the leather had been.

Trish moistened her lips. “Take your mask off,” she said quietly.

“But isn’t it sexier for me to leave it on?” He set the flail aside. “Eyes without a face. The anonymous lover in the dark.” He stepped closer and slipped his fingers into her hair. “It’s so soft,” he whispered. “That was the first thing I wondered when I saw you, how your hair would feel. And how it would be to kiss you.”

Panic vaulted through her. She hadn’t done this in a long time. She didn’t remember how, wasn’t sure she’d ever done it right to begin with. Being alone with him had seemed like a lark, but now she thought, no she was sure, it was a bad idea. Better to leave it as an unexplored possibility. Better to keep him from finding out who she really was. Better to end it now.

And then his lips touched hers, and thought whirled away, leaving only feeling.

So sweet. So warm. She hadn’t remembered that a man’s mouth felt like that. He didn’t stick his tongue down her throat like the men—boys, really—she’d kissed before. He wasn’t hurried and clumsy. Instead, he took his time, learning the shape of her mouth, sliding his hand over her cheek. It was undemanding and it made her relax. It was delicious and it made her savor.

Then he went deeper, taking her beyond enjoyment and making her want. When he sucked at her lower lip, she matched him; when he teased with the tip of his tongue she followed, suddenly eager to learn his flavors. It was half remembering, half finding her way beyond places she’d been before.

His hands slid down over her hips, warm against her. Earlier that night, she’d craved the feel of his body against hers. Now it was happening and she couldn’t stop smiling. Look at me, she wanted to shout, I’m kissing someone. And what a someone.

The feel of his lips nibbling along her jaw and down her throat drew a small, incoherent sound from her. Then his mouth was on the tender skin of her upper breasts and all she could do was gasp. Something tugged in the center of her. This was what it felt like, she thought, this was what it was all about, this tempting, teasing touch that lured her, pulled her toward a door to some hot darkness where only sensation mattered. Half anxious, half impatient and wholly engaged, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back.

Only to feel a hard bolt of arousal shoot through her as he slid a fingertip under the edge of her bodice and brushed against her nipple. Blindly, she clutched at his hair and the wig slid to one side. With an impatient noise, he pulled it and his mask off, tossing them away even as he kissed her throat.

She wanted his mouth on hers, craved his taste, wanted him to drag her into that trembling haze of desire, that place she’d never felt before. When she heard his soft groan, she laughed against him exultantly.

And then he raised his head and Trish caught her breath. Shock flowed through her like ice water. She knew, suddenly, why his voice had sounded familiar. She knew why she felt so at ease with him. She knew his face, oh yes, she knew his face. Of course she did—she’d seen it fifty feet high in the movie theatre, and in smaller versions on television, in the newspaper, in magazines.

Ty Ramsay, action star extraordinaire.

Ty Ramsay, Sabrina’s cousin, the fatally sincere heartbreaker.

“Jesus,” she murmured.

And turned to bolt.



“TRISH, WAIT.” Ty reached the door at the same time as she did, cursing himself.

She stopped to face him, at bay. “What do you want?”

To understand what had just happened to him. To know how with a single kiss she’d pulled him in deeper than any woman he’d ever touched. To figure out why she looked absolutely panicked when she’d recognized his face. “Where are you going? Why are you so upset?”

“I’m not upset. I’m a little surprised, maybe,” she said, her voice high and tense. “I get the whole mask thing, now. Sort of like the king dallying with the common folk.”

“Or the alien living among the earthlings.”

Even in the dark he could see her flushed cheeks. “Well, you can go back to your planet, now. It was fun and now it’s done.” She reached out for the door.

“Not as far as I’m concerned.”

Trish gave a short laugh. “Sorry, this is as much as I do on rooftops in public.”

But he’d caught a taste of something here that he wasn’t about to lose. “Look, this felt right. Don’t you want to see what happens next?”

“I think Sabrina’s documentary showed you what happens next. There are books, in case you’re confused.”

Ty cursed impatiently. “I’m not talking about sex. We can just sit and talk for all I care.” That wasn’t precisely true. He was pretty sure he wanted more—much more—but for now he’d take another dose of their easy laughter. “Don’t just run off. Please?”

Something flickered in her eyes—hope, maybe—and was quickly snuffed out by distrust. She reached behind her and opened the door. “Look, you’re probably a really nice guy, but I’m sure you’ve got starlets to hang out with. Let’s just call it good.” Before he could react, she’d whirled and was gone, leaving only a trace of her scent in the air.




3


THE MORNING SUN was still close to the horizon as Ty Ramsay ran along the canyon trail. He moved with ease, his lean, rangy body springy with power, sweat gradually shading his dark-blond hair to brown. Plenty of people liked living in the Hollywood Hills or amid the hustle and bustle of the Wilshire Corridor, a heartbeat away from a power lunch. Ty had gotten over that. Living in the canyon was what worked for him now. His neighbors were the coyotes who lived down the hillside and the doves who nested in the eucalyptus, not the Hollywood elite. So maybe it took him a little longer to drive into town to meetings and parties. Then again, there weren’t all that many parties worth being at anyway.

Except, maybe, for the one the night before.

Trish. He couldn’t figure out why she’d hit him so hard. Sure, she was gorgeous. Sure, she’d been dressed to attract attention. Then again, he was surrounded often as not by beauties dressed to impress. There’d been something more about this one, something that had pulled at him. She didn’t have the forgettable California blond look, but a delicate beauty that caught at his imagination, and an elusive wariness that made him wonder.

And brought her into his dreams.

It might have had something to do with their power-house kiss. It might have had more to do with laughing in the kitchen, watching the play of expressions over her face. Watching the stunned amazement writ large in the starlight as he’d trailed the leather of his whip over her shoulder.

His history with women had been checkered, at best. But he’d gotten tired of being a staple joke on the comedy circuit for having affairs with his costars. He’d made a vow nearly a year before to avoid relationships altogether until he figured out once and for all how to keep from making the same mistakes.

He had a feeling he was going to break his promise.

Ty followed the trail as it began winding back up the canyon. This early in the day, the October air held a crispness that gave him more energy as he went on, not less. The idea of body-sculpting in a glossy gym with some high-profile personal trainer did nothing for him. Better the peace and solitude of a morning run where the only noise was the thud of his footfalls and the whistle of an occasional bird. Ty glanced up at the walled house at the top of the hill, and sped up, knowing he was almost home.

Walls. Even in the canyon, you had to take personal security seriously, at least if you vied with Tom Cruise for top box-office draw around the globe. The little pulse of annoyance was so familiar he’d almost stopped feeling it. He’d known before he’d ever started acting what the price of fame could be, as he’d watched his uncle, Michael Pantolini, struggle with it. But when a college buddy had persuaded Ty to act in his senior project, everything had changed. Ty remembered the heady rush of those few short days, that sense of a previously unknown power surging through him.

He could no more have turned away from it than he could have stopped breathing.

And so he lived behind a wall and considered it a trade off. Ty slowed to a walk and turned down his asphalt driveway to see a bright-red Prius parked at the gate and a stocky, dark-haired man standing next to it, a camera slung around his neck. Speaking of privacy…

“Give us a smile for the hometown fans.” The man gave a cocky grin, lifting the camera up to his eye.

“You know, the last paparazzi who tried to shoot me here were picking up their cameras in little pieces at the bottom of the hill,” Ty told him, walking closer.

“No kidding?” The camera clicked and whirred as the photographer shot frame after frame.

“Once they finished picking themselves up, of course,” Ty said pleasantly. “Want me to demonstrate?”

The intruder lowered his camera and smirked. “You ain’t so tough.”

“Try me,” Ty suggested and took a step forward.

For a long moment they gave each other flinty-eyed stares. Then the intruder shook his head and waved the hand without the camera. “Cut.”

Ty narrowed his eyes. “You directors, you’re all alike. Never satisfied.”

The “paparazzo” patted one of Ty’s cheeks gently. “Ty, sweetie, you were fabulous, but if this goes any further you’re gonna need a stunt double.”

“You’re just cranky because you’re up on a Saturday before ten, Charlie.”

Charlie snorted. “You forget I have kids. Eight o’clock is sleeping in.”

Ty laughed and shook hands with Charlie Tarkington, college buddy and the person responsible for getting him into film. “I thought you hated leaving Santa Monica for the wilderness.”

“I figured it was about time I brought your camera back.”

“I was just going to put a call into the stolen property division. You could have gone through the gate, at least.”

Charlie shrugged. “I forgot the code.”

“It’s the date of the premiere of our first movie, dork.” Ty pressed his thumb on the security pad scanner and the gate glided noiselessly open to reveal the house beyond.

The structure was perched at the edge of the hillside. Sleek and white, the building’s clean lines were banded with glass. The high wall might have been for the privacy a man in Ty’s line of work had to fight for; the broad swathes of windows were for the freedom and openness he craved. When they stepped through the front door, it was to a flood of light, a room that stretched out and flung the viewer directly out into the canyon.

Charlie, as usual, went straight to the glass and stared out at the view. “You ever get nosebleeds up here?”

“Hey, when you make the big bucks you can afford lots of cotton balls. Want something to drink?” Ty turned off into the kitchen to rummage in the refrigerator. He knew some actors who had cooks, maids, an entire staff to take care of them. So far, he’d resisted anything beyond a weekly housecleaning service and the occasional visit from a landscaping crew to keep the yard from getting too out of control. Outside, he was fair game for the public. Here, he jealously guarded his privacy. “What do you want, O.J.? Soda?”

Charlie wandered into the kitchen after Ty, idly surveying the brushed aluminum Sub-Zero appliances and granite counters. “I’m tempted to ask you for a cappuccino just for the entertainment value of seeing Mr. People’s Choice Award figuring out how to use the knobs on that machine.”

“For that, you get water,” Ty said, grabbing two bottles from the refrigerator and tossing one to his friend.

Out on the deck, they relaxed in redwood Adirondack chairs and watched the morning mist burn away, until they could glimpse the sea in the bright distance.

“So, you into preproduction for Dark Touch yet?” Charlie asked idly, leaning back with a sigh.

“We start rehearsals next week.”

Charlie turned his head to study Ty. “And you’re not looking too thrilled about it.”

“It’s got problems, especially with the dialog.” And unless Ty did something about it, he’d be the chump stuck mouthing the bad lines. “The concept’s solid, it’ll definitely play, but the script needs tightening.”

“And?” Charlie prompted.

He shrugged. “And it’s just another Ty Ramsay hero. You know, the strong, quiet outsider who comes in and saves the day against the terrorists or the mobsters or the counterfeiters or whoever. Same guy, different movie.”

“They’re not all the same.”

“You’re right.” Ty gave a humorless smile. “They’ve each got their signature flaw: one smokes, one has anger management issues, one’s a rule-breaker, one—”

“Dresses in women’s underwear?” Charlie offered.

“Only in your movies. Admit it, Charlie, I’ve been one-tracked.” Ty fell broodingly silent and stared out at the canyon.

“So ask your agent to get you some other kinds of scripts. Go for the dark, sensitive stuff.”

If only it were that easy. “The studios want dark or sensitive they go to Nic Cage or Johnny Depp. They don’t come to me. They come to me when they want a guy who’s good at blowing stuff up.” He took a long drink of his water and reminded himself he should be happy for his success, not feeling as though his life wasn’t meshing the way he’d expected it to.

“Well, you could have the opposite problem. The studios look at me, they see Mr. Indie. Winning that jury prize at the film festival helped me in terms of getting small money, but it hasn’t done dick for me in the big leagues.”

“You want to blow stuff up?” Ty raised an eyebrow.

“Not exactly.” Charlie took a pull on his bottle of water. “Just once, I’d like to do something that’s not on a shoestring budget, though. If I could just have a crack at it, I could make it work.”

“Don’t I know that feeling. When you’re talking about millions, though, they want to know you can do it before they put the money behind it.”

“It bites,” Charlie said moodily.

“Yeah.”

They watched a swallow flit among the trees.

“You know—”

“Of course—”

They both stopped. “You first,” Charlie said.

“What if we teamed up? To start a production company, I mean.”

Charlie’s eyes gleamed. “You took the words right out of my mouth. You act, I direct. With your name, we can find the financing. Hunt up a few scripts we like, start them into development…”

“Everybody’s happy.” Ty sat forward, suddenly alive with energy. “Equal votes. When we find one we both like, we go with it. Then later, once the company’s running, we can pursue separate projects if we want.”

“There’s a script I’ve got optioned,” Charlie said slowly, “but I haven’t done anything with it because I know it would take more than I could come up with to do it right. I’ll send it over to you Monday. If you’re serious about this.”

“I’m serious.”

“Serious now or serious ‘some day’?”

“Serious yesterday. I am so ready for this, you wouldn’t believe.” Ty lapsed into silence, drumming his fingers on the chair arm. “We’ll need a name.”

Charlie considered. “Two Guys Productions?”

“And you’re supposed to be the creative part of the team? This is going to show up on a screen fifty feet high. How about Zephyr Productions?”

“Oh, sure, you want to name it after a bunch of hot air?”

“You’ve got a point,” Ty allowed and thought some more. “Okay, how about GDI Films?”

“GDI Films? As in ‘God-damn Independent’?”

“You know, that scrappy outsider thing.”

Charlie mulled it over and nodded slowly. “It works. I like it. So what’s our next step? We do the legal stuff, but how do we get things rolling?”

“I was at a party for the premiere of my cousin’s doc the other night,” Ty said thoughtfully. “Met a guy who might be good for coordinating things.”

“As long as that’s all he wants to do,” Charlie warned. “We don’t want to bring in some outsider who’s going to try to run things.”

“No, but we do need someone good to chase details. This guy sounds solid. I’ll follow up, see if I can get more info on him.”

“But keep it low-key.” Charlie nodded his head to some beat that only he could hear. “So yeah, Sabrina’s doc premiered last night, huh? How was it?”

“Really good. No surprise there. Sabrina knows what she’s doing. And she gives a hell of a party.” Trish, sliding her hand down her hip. Trish, dangling those delicious legs as she sat on the kitchen counter. Trish, silky and warm against him.

“So who is she?”

Ty blinked, then looked out at the canyon. “Sabrina’s my cousin, you idiot.”

“I’m not talking about your cousin. I know that look. Who is she? Tell Uncle Charlie.”

Ty considered denying it, but Charlie always had been able to read him. “No one you know.”

“I knew you wouldn’t stay on the wagon,” Charlie said comfortably.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, even you, action boy, are human. You can say you’re giving up women all you want, but you can only have so many gorgeous babes falling at your feet before you cave, right? Carpe diem and all that.”

Ty gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Hey, you’re free, single and over eighteen. What’s the problem?”

“I wasn’t on the cover of the Enquirer once last year,” Ty said, almost to himself. “It was kind of nice, you know?”

“You decided to give up women because of the tabloids?”

“No, I decided to take a break because I got tired of thinking I’d found the one and having it end in knockdown drag-outs with people I’d cared about.”

The humor faded from Charlie’s eyes. “Look, your parents, that love-at-first-sight thing? That doesn’t happen to real people.”

“So you keep telling me.”

“And what you feel on a movie set when you’re paid to pretend you’re a guy in love with a knockout who’s pretending to be in love with you, that’s not real, either.”

“Okay, okay.” If Ty was sick of playing the same parts in films, he was doubly sick of doing the same stupid things over and over again in his personal life. “Give me some credit, I’ve figured out the whole fooling-myself part. It’s not all looks.” There had to be more—a real connection, fun, complexity that made him want to get beneath the surface.

“So I take it this one’s—er, what do we call her?”

“Trish.”

“So this Trish looks like your grandmother, then?”

Ty’s mouth tightened briefly, then relaxed as he saw the humor in it. “Not exactly.”

“Didn’t think so. Look, you have whatever fun you want, bud. Just don’t let it interfere with GDI, because we’ve got a mission. GDI Films,” he repeated. “I like it already.”





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