Книга - Turn Me On

Turn Me On
Kristin Hardy


Members of Sex & the Supper Club cordially invite you to a sneak preview of intimacies best shared among friends When a gang of twenty-something women get together, men are always on the menu!Stripping school? Exhibitionism? Fetishes? All sexy, all topics for Sabrina Pantolini's uncensored sex TV series. True Sex explores wild secret sensual desires and will be her masterpiece. Friends at the club agree that covering voyeurism, lap-dance lessons and X-rated toys–the more offbeat the better–will rock everyone's world. Including her own.Stef Costas is Sabrina's most dangerous decision yet. Bringing him on board as director for the no-holds-barred project is like throwing gasoline on a fire. Her once-sizzling affair with the enigmatic hunk burned them both. Badly. Now their relationship is strictly business–unless, of course, the scorcher they're filming turns into their reality, and the go-for-it producer goes for it, again….









He was aware of Sabrina, of the touch of her breast, the tease of her lips


“Haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like, Stefan?” she whispered feverishly, reaching down for his zipper. “Don’t you wonder how it would be to watch it, to feel it? I do,” she breathed. “I do and I want you. Now.”

The words snapped the thin thread of control holding him and he backed her up against the nearest wall of the club. When her fingers pulled him out, it tore a groan from him. He kissed her lips, her eyes, then he twined his fingers through her hair and tugged her head back to feast on her neck. More, he thought, and he slid up her short skirt to find only skin, only her, slick, swollen and ready.

“Sabrina,” he breathed, and it took everything he had to keep himself from letting go…not until his fingers were on her, not until he was in her, not until he felt her come.

The huge TV screen suspended above the bar, constantly flashed pImages** of the room. One man sent a woman writhing with every stroke of his tongue. On the dance floor, a couple discreetly fondled each other.

And in the corner, Sabrina, wrapped around Stef, impaled on him, braced against the wall, released a shuddering cry.







Dear Reader,

Welcome to my new trilogy, SEX & THE SUPPER CLUB. Sabrina, Kelly, Trish, Cilla, Paige, Thea and Delaney met during college when they were all working on a drama production. The bonds they formed were strong, and even as the years have passed they’ve remained entwined in each other’s lives through the weekly dinners of the Sex & the Supper Club. Over the course of coming books, you’ll get to know them and watch them one by one conquer the challenges in their lives and find true love.

I grew up in the L.A. area, while my sister still lives there. We’ve done a lot of hard work scouting locations—you should see how we suffered having to go to all these wonderful restaurants, hip bars and other hot spots. The things I do for love…. Speaking of which, I hope you enjoy reading Stef and Sabrina’s love story. Drop me a line 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.

Have fun,

Kristin Hardy




Turn Me On

Kristin Hardy







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


To Gretchen,

who runs with a fast crowd,

and to Stephen,

always and forever.




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

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20




Prologue


Big Drama Behind the Scenes

Kelly Vandervere, staff writer

Daily Californian



When it comes to drama, the play’s the thing. It’s not just about acting, though. If it weren’t for a crew of dedicated behind-the-scenes volunteers, the drama department’s spring 1996 production of Shakespeare’s Henry V would never see the light of day.

Dialogue is key, which is why Trish Dawson and her collaborators from the English deaprtment have spent many hours trimming the script to fit a two-hour college production. It’s not all words, though. Henry V also includes dramatic battle scenes choreographed by dance major Thea Mitchell.

And the production has to look right. Design major Cilla Danforth supervises wardrobe, coming up with authentic-looking period costumes from the drama department’s archives. Paige Wheeler, also from the design department, complements Danforth’s work with gorgeous set decoration that evokes the medieval era.

Of course, all that hard work wouldn’t mean anything without the clever marketing campaign of business major Delaney Phillips. And to make sure the production is recorded for posterity, film major Sabrina Pantolini is capturing it in a video documentary.

So when you’re in your seats tonight enjoying the premiere of the production, applaud the actors but don’t forget to clap a few times for all the other folks who make the magic happen.




1


“WHAT I WANT FROM YOU, honey, is sex.” Royce Schuyler, the Home Cinema vice president of programming, stared across the restaurant table to where Sabrina Pantolini sat—poised, sleek and dark like a silky cat. “You give me that, and everything else will follow.”

“Royce, honey, I’ll give you the best sex you’ve ever had.” Sabrina smiled, her eyes ripe with promise and fun. A golden topaz hung winking from a gold chain around her neck. “This documentary series is going to have people stopping to take cold showers.”

“Swingers are old hat. Don’t give me swingers.”

Sabrina snorted and pushed her short, dark hair back behind her ears. “Forget swingers. That’s practically pedestrian. I’m talking about blow job tutors, exhibitionist hotels, you name it. It’s perfect for cable—all the stuff that the networks would never have the nerve to touch, and you guys will be putting it right in the late-night living rooms of Middle America.”

“With a guarantee like that, I’m looking forward to the pilot.”

“Great. Does that mean you’re ready to sign on for it?” Her goat cheese and heirloom tomato salad sat in front of her, forgotten.

Royce shook his head and scanned the restaurant with a practiced eye. “Not yet. I want to see what you’ve got when you finish the pilot.”

“I need working capital, Royce.”

“I’m sure you do, but I can’t give it to you.” He took a drink of his seltzer water. “Right now, you’ve got no track record and no staff on board.”

Sabrina suppressed a surge of annoyance. The money she was asking for was chump change for a cable network like Home Cinema and Schuyler knew it. On the other hand, she was fortunate he was even here talking to her. If she’d been anyone else, she’d have been lucky to meet some mid-level flunky in the city offices. Instead, she was here talking with Home Cinema’s vice president of programming in a see-and-be-seen restaurant.

She had no illusions about why she was getting the VIP treatment. Her father, Michael Pantolini, had been the kind of director people talked about in hushed whispers. Even five years after his death in an auto accident, Sabrina was still connected to the Hollywood power structure through her producer uncle, her action-star cousin and her set-designer mother. Sabrina was Hollywood royalty, but if it gave her some small edge, it also made her chafe.

“I can make a better pilot if I have Home Cinema behind me,” she said in a slightly bored voice, waving across the room to an actress she knew slightly.

“Find a way to make a hot pilot on your own. That’s the mark of a good producer. Bring it to me and we’ll talk.” Royce took a sip of his drink. “Hey, isn’t that your cousin who just came in?”

Sabrina glanced over at the door where Matt Ramsay had just arrived with this month’s hot starlet on his arm. Oh yeah, she knew how this worked. Royce expected her to call Matt over and introduce them. It would up Royce’s collateral with everyone in the room to be seen talking to the big box-office hero. And maybe the next time Royce was looking to cast an action miniseries, he’d have a better chance of getting Matt. Sabrina stifled a sigh. Sometimes she found the treacly, sycophantic side of Hollywood almost impossible to tolerate.

If she were smart, she’d use Matt to work Royce and get her funding. That was how it was done in Hollywood. Sabrina wasn’t always smart that way, though. She had a feisty disposition as classically Italian as the arc of her cheekbones, her vivid coloring and the hollows of her eyelids that somehow lent an extra importance to her every expression. She didn’t want to use her family connections to make this happen. She wanted to make True Sex fly on its own. If she could have gotten away with it, she’d have used her mother’s name. Unfortunately, Sabrina Pantolini was far too well-known from her years in the media spotlight to work incognito.

Matt waved and started over to where she sat.

Sabrina sighed. “All right, Schuyler, I’ll get you your pilot in six weeks. You like it, you give me a series contract.” She rose. “Thanks for lunch.”



“SO ARE YOU AN AUNTIE YET, Laeticia?” Sabrina asked her assistant as she breezed into the office of Pantolini Productions. Offices, really, if you counted the tiny reception/waiting area as separate from the cramped room behind it. Though her offices were tucked in an old building off Hollywood Boulevard instead of in Westwood, they were hers. Besides, they were big enough in a town where all the important meetings took place in restaurants.

“An auntie? Not so far. My sister’s taking her time. Of course, that girl’s been late for everything since her own birth, so it doesn’t surprise me a bit.” Laeticia was long and slender, with gorgeous, mocha-colored skin and doe-soft eyes. When they’d met, Sabrina had wondered how a woman like Laeticia could possibly take on the production coordinator’s role of logistics, paperwork and organization, let alone survive the Hollywood meat grinder. To her surprise, the woman was ruthlessly efficient, able to alternately sweet-talk and bully as the situation demanded. Anyone who underestimated Laeticia did so at his peril.

“Patience. You know what they say about watched pots.”

“Mmmm. So how did the meeting go with the brass?”

Sabrina moved her shoulders noncommittally. “Well enough, I suppose. They want to see more. Now we just have to deliver.”

“That doesn’t sound too hard.”

Sabrina made a face at her. “Any messages or mail?”

“Your new cell phone is here,” Laeticia said, handing her a small box. “I activated it for you. Try not to lose this one, hmmm?”

Sabrina grinned. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Laeticia picked up a pair of small pink notes. “Gus Stirling called to remind you that the night shoot on the Hollywood Hauntings project has moved to the Sunset Boulevard location.”

Augustus Stirling, Sabrina’s godfather and teacher. The thought of seeing him made her smile, though with the night shoot he had planned, they’d probably go until the sun was coming up. No sleep for her tonight, she thought resignedly. The fact that in her partying days she’d seldom arrived home before breakfast didn’t make her any happier about missing her slumber. Back then, she’d crash until three or four in the afternoon if she’d felt like it. Now, she had to rise and shine early in the morning to meet deadlines and get work done.

But Gus had taken her seriously when she’d decided she wanted to work in film and had taught her the job from the ground up. He’d been tough on her, forcing her to prove herself again and again. He wasn’t shy about working her hard and she’d be damned if she’d stop a second before he did.

“You also had a call from Kelly Vandervere, reminding you that the Supper Club is at Gilbert’s at seven.”

Nachos, margaritas and gossip with old friends. Sabrina’s mouth curved into an arc of pleasure. That much, at least, would make the rest of the night tolerable. “And?”

“Just remember, don’t get too worn out tonight. If Kisha goes into labor later, I might be coming in late tomorrow.”

Sabrina winked at her. “Here’s hoping I’m on my own and you’re an auntie.”

“Just what I need—baby-sitting and diaper-changing duties,” Laeticia muttered, but her eyes held a smile as she said it.



FIVE HOURS LATER, Sabrina opened the glass door of Gilbert’s and stepped into a bar area filled with the sound of blenders. It seemed as if half her time was spent in restaurants, she thought wryly as she passed the hostess stand with a nod. Then she turned the corner and spied the group of women seated at a table, talking animatedly, half hidden by a lattice. The usual faces.

And the usual discussions.

“Forget all this feel-good stuff. Reality is, size matters,” said a tawny-haired woman with an angular face.

“Not true.” The words were definite, the speaker dressed in a silky floral op-art blouse from the latest Dolce & Gabbana collection. “Bigger might be better, but it’s what he does with it that makes the difference.”

The first woman snorted. “Oh, come on, Cilla. The guy’s twenty-two,” she said, taking a swig of her margarita. “He doesn’t know enough to do anything with it. With them, it’s just in and out, with maybe a few hours sleep in between. At least if it’s big, he’s got a fighting chance to do some good.”

Sabrina ducked around the corner. “On the other hand, there’s a limit to size. It has to be big enough for basic purposes, but too much beyond that it just hurts.”

Six sets of eyes stared at her blankly.

“Sabrina? Good to see you, sweetie, but what the hell do you mean?” asked the tawny-haired woman, Kelly Vandervere.

Sabrina pulled up a chair at the table and signaled to the waiter for a beer. “Come on, admit it. We’ve all had to groan through getting pounded by some guy who thinks a monster boner and an ability to recite batting averages in his head is all he needs to send a woman to heaven. Size isn’t everything.” She speared a pickled jalapeño out of the bowl on the table.

“What are you talking about?” asked Cilla Danforth, an amused frown on her triangular, foxy-looking face.

It was Sabrina’s turn to look blank. “Tackle. Aren’t you?”

Laughter rose around her. “Apartments,” said Kelly, wiping her eyes. “We were talking about my little brother’s new apartment. Only someone with your filthy mind would think we were talking about dicks.”

“Sorry. It was the thought of all your dirty minds that made me assume you were talking about sex,” Sabrina said with dignity, taking her beer from the waiter. “So if you’re not talking about it, does that mean that nobody’s getting it?”

“Do you guys realize we’ve talked about sex every single week for the past five years? You’re obsessed. Let’s do something else for a change.” Dark-haired Thea Mitchell, dressed in her perpetual black, scooped up salsa with a chip and crunched it.

Cilla and Kelly looked at each other. “I like talking about sex,” Kelly offered.

“Yeah. It’s the next best thing to having it,” tossed in Delaney Phillips, a corn-silk blonde in a candy-pink lace camisole and a black choker. “I bet you’d change your tune if we just set you up with a man. We could do Trish, too, while we’re at it.”

“No way.” With her curly red hair skinned back from her face and no makeup, Trish almost managed to disguise her gorgeous bone structure. “I’m on dating sabbatical, remember? That’s why I hang out with you guys—to live vicariously.”

“Well, somebody’s got to be getting it.” Sabrina looked around the table.

“Possibly,” Cilla said. “Paige had a date the other night, I know, because she wouldn’t go to the gym with me.”

Cool and patrician, Paige gave a graceful shrug. “Nothing much to tell. He was just my escort to a fund-raiser.”

Five heads around the table perked up. “Spill it,” Kelly demanded.

Paige shook her head and the blond layers of her expensive haircut swished and settled perfectly. “His name is Landon, and—”

“That should have sent you running right there,” Cilla interjected. “Never date a guy with a trust-fund name. I know these guys, Paige. You’re just asking for death by boredom.”

“Says the trust-fund kid herself,” Trish jabbed lightly.

“I don’t have a trust fund.”

Trish rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry, a chain of department stores.”

“The stores belong to my dad.” Cilla twisted her chunky amethyst David Yurman cocktail ring. “I’m just a working stiff like the rest of you, remember? Anyway, we’re not talking about me. The guy sounds like a preppster. Where did he grow up, Paige?”

“Greenwich, Connecticut.”

“I rest my case,” Cilla said smugly.

“He was nice enough. Smart, well-informed.” She paused while the waitress set plates of quesadillas in front of them. “Good job in the legal department at Fox.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Delaney wrinkled her snub nose. “Get to the good stuff. How did he kiss?”

Paige aimed a chilly look at Delaney, who merely grinned.

“Give it up, Paige. We’ve seen you cleaning the bathroom in your underwear.”

The cool look evaporated and Paige laughed. “I knew I was out of my mind when I moved in with you guys back then.”

“Are you kidding? We taught you how to have a good time. Now tell us about the kiss,” Kelly ordered.

Paige eyed them. “Too wet. Too much tongue, too quickly.”

“Sounds like a first kiss,” Thea muttered, taking a sip of her iced tea.

“Was that how your first kiss was?” Cilla asked her. “That’s too bad. Mine was pretty good. Jason Stilton, third grade.”

“Third grade?” Paige raised an eyebrow.

“He was precocious,” Cilla said.

“Or someone was,” Delaney said. “I didn’t get my first kiss until eighth grade. “Jake Gordon, boyfriend number one.” She sighed a little dreamily.

“I don’t remember the name of my first kiss, but I bet the location’s got you all beat,” Kelly wagered.

“I’ll bite,” Sabrina said. “Where?”

“On the Matterhorn at Disneyland.”

“The Matterhorn?” Sabrina reached out for a slice of quesadilla. “You know the make-out ride was the Haunted Mansion.”

“Hey, you take what you can get when you can get it.”

Delaney snorted. “And when can you get it on the Matterhorn? Try it there, you lose some teeth.”

“You know the part where you’re getting pulled up the first hill? My girlfriend and I had met him and his buddy in line, so he was sitting behind me in the bobsled. I leaned back to say something to him and wham, full tongue and everything.”

“Nothing like jumping in at the deep end,” Trish said.

“Shocked the heck out of me. I was thirteen. I thought kissing was about lips. Then we got to the top of the hill and the ride started.”

“You didn’t keep kissing, did you?”

“God no. We’d have dislocated our necks, or at least lost our tongues.”

“Well, I don’t know about the first kiss, but my best kiss is still Carl Reynolds, that guy I dated last year,” said Cilla, reaching out for a pickled carrot.

“I thought you said he was a waste of a human being,” Paige objected.

“Oh, he was. But he was still a great kisser,” Cilla said.

“My best kisser was the guy I went out with last week, I think,” Kelly threw in. “Of course, that’s always subject to change,” she said with an appraising glance around the room. “What about you, Sabrina?”

“What, best kiss or first kiss?”

“Best kiss. First kiss is too easy.”

Sabrina took a thoughtful drink of her beer and set it down. “Stef Costas, the first time we kissed.”

“Definite waste of a human being,” Kelly said decisively.

“But a great kisser.”



SABRINA OPENED HER PURSE and pulled out a couple of bills to toss on the table. “Okay, that’s all for me.”

Delaney stared at her. “It’s only nine-thirty.”

“I’ve got a night shoot starting in an hour,” she explained.

“A night shoot?” Kelly might have worked for Hot Ticket magazine for her day job, but as near as Sabrina could tell, she was never off shift.

“For the Hollywood ghost documentary. We’re going to the Château Mirabelle, where Elaine Chandler overdosed. Supposedly there’s a cold spot in her room and guests who’ve stayed there swear they’ve seen an apparition.”

“Brrr. That’s creepy,” Trish said with a grimace.

“Don’t tell me you believe in ghosts.” Kelly gave her an amused glance.

“I’m not so cynical that I don’t believe there are things out there we don’t understand.”

“Hah. You just pretend to be a cynic. Deep inside, you’re a mushy romantic,” Kelly corrected, pulling her plate forward with relish. “I’m the cynic. Forget about Mr. Right. Me, I’ll settle for Mr. Right Now. It’s a lot less trouble,” she said, eyeing the waiter speculatively. “What I don’t believe, Sabrina, is that you, with your multimillion-dollar trust fund, are playing the working schlep. In your shoes, I’d quit in a minute.”

Trish broke in. “You are so full of it. You’d report for Hot Ticket for free and you know it. Where else would you have official license to poke into things that don’t concern you?”

Kelly ran her tongue around her teeth. “Okay, guilty as charged. But seriously, Sabrina, why work so hard if you don’t have to?”

“You know why. I want to work for myself.”

“So do it. You’ve got the bankroll,” Paige pointed out, patting her mouth with her napkin and setting it on the table.

“That’s my family’s money, not mine. Plus I don’t have the know-how, or at least I didn’t. You know the deal I made with Uncle Gus—I work, he teaches.”

“But you have worked,” Trish protested.

“She’s right, Rina,” Thea said mildly. “You’ve been at this for almost five years. Whatever happened to that idea you were talking about for a cable documentary?”

Should she say something or would she jinx herself? “Funny you should ask,” Sabrina began, a ridiculously broad grin spreading across her face. “I’m just about ready to start shooting.”

A chorus of congratulations erupted around the table.

“What does your family think?” asked Cilla, who knew a thing or two about family legacies, having grown up in her father’s retail empire.

Sabrina slanted her a dry look. “You know what my family thinks,” she said. “That I’ll give it up sooner or later for a party.” She permitted herself a mischievous smile. “Or at least that’s what they’d think if they didn’t know the topic of the documentary. If they did, they might be a little less than thrilled.”

“What is the topic?” Paige asked, curious.

Sabrina pursed her lips. “Kinky sex, of course.”

Kelly hooted. “Tame, Pantolini. Show me a film that’s not about sex.”

“Wait till you see this one,” Sabrina promised, eyes alight with fun. “Sex clubs, exhibitionists in the act, blow job tutorials. Tonight’s my last night working for somebody else. Come tomorrow, I get rolling on True Sex, coming soon to a cable station near you.”




2


SABRINA SAT IN A cast-iron chair on the patio of her Uncle Gus’s Hollywood Hills bungalow, eyes closed and head tipped back in the warm afternoon sunlight. The night shoot had gone smoothly, but the loss of sleep was beginning to catch up with her. That, and anxiety over the bombshell that had been dropped in her lap that morning. She wouldn’t think about it for a few minutes, though. For a few minutes, she’d just relax and not fret about deadlines or logistics.

Or the fact that her director had skipped to a different project.

The sound of the sliding glass door had her raising her head to see Gus step onto the flagstone patio, two glasses of iced tea in his hands. Though he was closing in on the age most people started drawing Social Security, time hadn’t stooped him or stiffened his easy stride. Maybe the years had added a network of lines to his hawk face and silvered the hair that flowed down over his collar, but, if anything, the changes made him appear even more wise, even more filled with the answers.

Answers she currently needed very badly.

He sat, staring at her with a faint smile on his face.

“What?” Sabrina asked.

“I’m just remembering you at your christening, kicking and squalling at the top of your lungs. You’ve grown up nicely.”

Sabrina gave him a tired smile. “Sometimes I don’t feel grown-up at all. At least, not grown-up enough to do everything that needs doing.”

He set a glass in front of her. “If it’s worth doing, it’s rarely easy.”

She nodded.

“How did your meeting with Schuyler go?”

Sabrina took a sip of her tea. “It went well, I think. He likes the concept. I played him on the competition with Spotlight! and he jumped.”

“What did you walk away with?”

“He’s open to it. All we have to do is wow him with the pilot and we’re home free.”

Gus nodded, watching a hummingbird whisk around the feeder that hung from the eaves of the house. “Well, that puts your foot in the door.”

“Yeah.” She rubbed her temples. “Except I just lost my director.”

Gus snapped his head around to stare at her. “I thought he was locked in.”

“He’d done everything but ink the papers,” she said, resisting the urge to begin pacing. “Timing’s everything in this business, you know that. Someone else offered him something he liked better.”

“So what are you going to do, kid?”

Sabrina gave him a wry smile. “I thought you might ask that. I spent the afternoon beating the bushes to find out who’s available and who I could afford.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I called everyone I could think of. No one’s free, at least no one who could do what we need.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ll do some more calling tomorrow. I can’t lose time when I’ve already told Schuyler it’s coming.”

Gus stroked his chin. “Did you try Marcus Amblin?”

Sabrina nodded. “No dice.”

“Petra Krausz?”

“Ditto. And Lloyd Asherton and the Lamonte-Crosby group. Everyone’s got balls in the air,” she finished morosely, rubbing patterns in the condensation on her glass. “Doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen eventually, it’s just that the delay makes me look bad to Schuyler.”

Gus tapped his fingers on the table. “There’s one possibility I can think of,” he said slowly. “Someone who owes me a favor and might be willing to help us out. You’d probably only have him for the pilot, but that’ll buy you some time to find another director for the main series. First things first, after all.”

Sabrina shook her head. “I don’t want you to call in favors on my account. I need to do this myself.”

“Oh, trust me, you’ll do it yourself. I’m just going to see if I can help clear the path a little.”

“Advice only, remember? And a swift kick in the pants if I ever need one. I don’t want you coming in and smoothing things over for me, Gus.”

Humor crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Trust me, petunia, if this works out, smooth is the last thing it’ll be.”

She gave him a suspicious look before raising her glass to take a sip. “What have you got up your sleeve? Who are you talking about?”

“He’s a filmmaker’s filmmaker,” he told her. “He’s not always easy, but he’s talented.”

“Who, Gus?” she persisted.

“He’ll be the one to take your concept from interesting to sublime.”

“Gus.” Her voice was full of warning.

The edge of his mouth twitched with what she could have sworn was humor. “Stef Costas.”

The glass of tea slipped from her fingers and shattered on the pavement.



STEFOS COSTAS SLOUCHED in front of the editing machine, scanning the black-and-white film of striking workers that flickered on the screen in front of him. The picket line stood blocking an old-fashioned factory gate, the men looking shabby and grimly determined. Then a jet of water shot in, knocking the men down. Stef frowned and stopped the film, rolling it back to review a few seconds’ worth of footage. At his elbow, the phone jangled for attention, but he ignored it, moving the film slowly, looking for the moment…there, that was it—the frame in which the first man was hit by the water, grimacing as the jet sent him tumbling over.

Stef’s straight dark hair fell over his forehead. He shoved it impatiently out of his way, pressing the editing controls to make the new cut and splice it into an interview with a historian. The room’s faint light turned his cheekbones into sharp slashes below eyes that were nearly black. He studied the new edit, the intensity that drew his face taut now softening slightly in satisfaction.

In film circles, Stef was known as a gifted documentary director. Focused, even driven, some said, he was the genius behind a critically lauded film about espionage in the American War of Independence and one on the Industrial Revolution. Unfortunately, being a hot property in documentary circles didn’t necessarily bring in cash or translate into getting green-lighted on any project he wished, not when he was crafting cinematic releases. Unless you were Ken Burns with a big-money sponsor and a main line to PBS, getting docs funded was always a battle. Fortunately, his next project—his dream project—was all set, just as soon as he finished his current piece on the early union movement.

It was time for him to make a film that really engaged him again. Of late, he’d been going through the motions. Sure, he was satisfied with his craftsmanship, but somehow it wasn’t quite enough to get rid of the restlessness that niggled at him.

When the phone jangled again, he reached over absently and picked it up.

“Costas,” he said economically, eyes on the screen as he fast-forwarded the film to reach his next target segment.

“Stef? Mitch.” It was the voice of his producer. “How’s it going?”

“Good. I’m finishing the edits on the union piece. I made a contact in Athens who’s going to fast-track some of the permit and approvals process. With luck, seven weeks from now, yours truly will be on the coast of the Aegean, filming.” And witnessing the excavation of a World War II execution site that held clues to the fates of members of the Greek underground. Members who might, perhaps, have included his grandfather.

If he closed his eyes, Stef could hear his grandmother’s heavily accented English as she told his younger self the stories of what had happened, what little she knew. And she’d wept. Even then, as a child, he’d vowed to ferret out the true story, to someday be able to tell her what had happened to the man she’d loved. The rift that had subsequently opened between her and his career-obsessed parents when she’d criticized their child-rearing hadn’t weakened his ties to her or the strength of his determination.

For years, Stef had researched the topic, waiting for the right moment to dive in. With two award-winning films already under his belt and the hotly anticipated union doc scheduled to premiere in a month, the timing felt right. “Everything’s looking good on this end as far as prep goes. I talked with the university team today, and they’re ready to have me film the entire excavation process.”

“Uh, can you get an extension on that?”

Stef’s expression sharpened. “Why?” He stopped the editing machine. “What’s going on, Mitch?”

There was a pause. “Atkinson and Trimax are backing out. Maybe it’s a cash-flow thing, but they’re not prepared to go forward until the next fiscal year at the earliest.”

Stef cursed. “You know my window’s limited. They’re going to dig up this site whether I’m there or not, and once it’s done, it’s done.” He stood and paced across the room. “We’ve been talking with these guys for three years. They know the parameters of the project. What are they doing dropping out now?”

“Everyone’s skittish in this economy.”

“Have you tried the indie studios?”

Mitch let out a sigh. “I’ve been burning up the phones all day. No one wants to bite. Not now. People want feel-good movies, date movies. Cinematic docs are never easy, you know that.”

“Did you try the foundations?” Stef demanded, raking a hand through his hair while he calculated how much money he might be able to scare up in grants.

“No dice. Look, Stef, they’re not backing out, it’s just a delay. You were planning to work on the piece about that Rhode Island nightclub fire after you got through in Greece, right? So swap the order, do Rhode Island first and Greece after. It’ll work out. You’ve just got to be patient.”

“I am being patient, Mitch,” Stef said ominously. “The university group is starting their dig in two months. A year from now, they’re going to be done.”

“I’m being conservative with the twelve to eighteen months, Stef. It could happen sooner.”

“Even six months is too late.”

“Look, I’m not going to fight with you.” Mitch paused. “Finish up the union film, take a couple of months off and you can start Rhode Island. We can use that to fund Greece, if you need to. You can work with the still photos they’ll take during the excavation. You’ve always had a genius for that.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Mitch sighed. “You’ve been waiting a decade to do this. What’s another year?”

It was the difference between crucial footage and telling a dead story, Stef wanted to roar. It was squandering a golden opportunity to tell the story he wanted, the only story that really mattered to him.

Instead, he held on to his control. “Look, Mitch, keep the pressure on them. And do me a favor—don’t stop looking.”

Stef hung up the phone and stood for a moment. Then he kicked his chair and sent it spinning in circles. Against the wall, grainy black-and-white footage showed a frame of union men pelting scabs with rocks.

The phone rang again, and this time he picked it up with a snarl. “Costas.”

“You’ve got a bark on you, boy. Gus Stirling here. Got a minute?”

Stef’s face relaxed. “Gus. It’s good to hear your voice. How’ve you been?”

“Good. I hear your union piece is supposed to premiere next month.”

Stef glanced at the screen. “Assuming I finish the edit.”

“You always were a perfectionist. Did my cousin at the Greek Film Commission take care of you?”

“He was a godsend. Pushed through all the permits in record time. I owe him one. You, too.”

“I didn’t do anything much, it was all Louie. He’s a good man to know.”

“I’ll say. What can I do to thank him?”

Gus chuckled. “Buy him a glass of ouzo when you get to Athens. He’ll like that.”

“Consider it done, assuming I ever get over there.”

“What do you mean? I thought you said the permits came through.”

Frustration started to simmer again in Stef’s blood. “They did. Unfortunately, there’s been a holdup in funding. Hopefully not long, but it looks like I won’t be going over for a couple of months, at least.”

“So what are you going to do when your union piece is done?”

Stef shrugged, forgetting Gus couldn’t see him. “I don’t know, preproduction? A vacation? Set up on a street corner and beg for money?”

Gus snorted. “If I know you, preproduction was done six months ago, and you’ve never taken a vacation in all the time I’ve known you. And you never beg.”

“Maybe it’s time I started. They’re excavating a key site over there in about eight weeks. If I miss that, I miss the heart of the doc.” And he missed the chance to pick up a clue about his grandfather, he thought. “I’ve got to find a way to go, and until I do, I can’t really get into anything serious.”

“Sure you can, if it’s small enough.”

This wasn’t just a social call, Stef realized suddenly, staring at the flickering black-and-white footage on the wall. “What’s on your mind, Gus?”

He could hear the smile in the older man’s voice. “That obvious, huh? I used to be better at this.”

“That’s the problem with getting in the habit of shooting straight with someone. You tend to lose the art of B.S.”

“A symptom of my advancing age, no doubt. Well, let me just cut to the chase. I could help you out with your funding problems. As you know, I’m the head of a little consortium that funds a couple of small films a year. Though, I’ve got a little problem to take care of before I can really afford to think about that.”

Here it came, Stef thought. “And that would be?”

Gus coughed. “I’ve got a project that needs a director. The person scheduled to do it ducked out unexpectedly, and the shooting’s supposed to start next week.”

Something had Stef’s radar going haywire. “What is it?”

“Cable documentary, a one-hour pilot.”

“What’s the topic?”

“It’s an alternative lifestyles thing.”

“You mean sex,” Stef said flatly.

“Sex,” Gus agreed.

His first inclination was to say hell no, but the prospect of being able to get his Greek documentary off the ground had him pausing. “Who’s the producer?”

“She’s new to the game, but I’ve been teaching her the ropes the past few years. I think you’ll find her tough and fair.”

“Who, Gus?”

“My goddaughter, Sabrina Pantolini.”

Like an icy wave, memories swamped him and robbed him of breath. Laughing eyes, a mouth always curved up in some sort of devilment, a body greedy for his touch. Eight years before, when he’d been in grad school, Sabrina Pantolini had been his lover.

Eight years before, she’d been his love.

Film had been what he’d lived and breathed, the drive for success pumping through his veins. Still, even he wasn’t immune to a woman like Sabrina. She’d taught him about life beyond film, brought him out into the fresh air. Taught him what it was like to love and be loved.

And she had taught him about betrayal.

“Oh, come on Gus, you know better than to ask something like this. A sex documentary is bad enough, but with her?”

“She’s grown up a lot, Stef. She’s serious about this.”

“This week.”

“And the week before, and the five years before that,” Gus said reprovingly. “She’s paid her dues and been part of some damned fine work. I should know—she’s been doing it for me.”

How was it that he hadn’t known about this, Stef asked himself. He certainly hadn’t missed her face in any of the glossy newsstand magazines. She unveiled a new grand career every week, or so it seemed, in between showing up at the hot parties with some good-looking guy on her arm. Not that that bothered him, he thought, loosening his jaw. The past was the past.

And he hadn’t exactly been celibate himself, not that any of them had stuck. There had been other women, but none who felt right in his arms, none who tasted right. None who had been able to make him laugh and feel truly light the way Sabrina had. First love, he told himself, just memories of first love.

“Look, Stef, I realize what I’m asking here. The question is do you want to do your Greek doc or don’t you? If you want it, then it’s a trade-off. I’ll get you the money and you get me that pilot in the can. Four weeks is all I’m asking.”

“Plus postproduction,” Stef reminded him.

“Plus postproduction, but that will go quicker than you think.”

Stef hesitated. Gus was right; he didn’t beg, and somehow taking money from a friend seemed like the same thing.

“You’ve got me in a bind here, Gus.”

“Nonsense.” Gus’s voice was brisk. “I’m offering you a way out. And you’ll be doing me that favor you said you owed me.”

Stef rubbed his temple. It was imperative that he get to Greece while the excavation was still going on. He owed it to his grandfather to tell his story the right way; he owed it to himself and his family to find out what he could.

Besides, maybe before he uncovered one part of his past, he could bury another—the image he held of Sabrina from days gone by. Maybe, he thought, just maybe it would be good for him to take on Gus’s project. Reality couldn’t possibly match up to the memory. He’d see her, talk with her, get her out of his head once and for all.

And when he was done with the project, he’d be done with her.

“I’ll do it,” Stef said suddenly.

“Wonderful.” Gus’s voice was delighted. “I’ll get some numbers from your producer and we can move things along. As far as the cable doc…” he paused.

“It’s as good as done,” Stef said, ignoring his bellyful of misgivings at the idea of working with Sabrina again.

Yeah, he was sure it was just misgivings.




3


“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, I have to have a fire truck on site?” Sabrina demanded of the faceless bureaucrat on the phone. “It’s not like we’re setting and filming open fires in the middle of a national forest. We’re filming on a street.”

She sighed, tapping a pen on the stack of forms in front of her. She knew the cycle of permit after permit after permit by heart. That didn’t mean she had to like it. Sometimes, the regulations made sense. More often, she suspected they were put into place merely to torment her.

“All right,” she said, giving in to the inevitable. “Off-duty cops and an off-duty fire truck on site at all times. If we get that, are we good to go?” At the affirmative answer, she gave a decisive nod. “Thanks for your help,” she said insincerely and hung up the phone.

At the burble and whir of the fax machine in the outer office, Sabrina glanced out her door at Laeticia’s empty desk—Kisha had finally gone into labor and Laeticia was with her, leaving Sabrina to fend for herself. Just what she needed. Bad enough she was facing the prospect of dealing with Stef Costas again; now her office routine was falling apart. She was a professional, though. She’d deal with the office and she’d sure as hell deal with Stef. He might have mowed her over at nineteen, not now.

Frowning at herself, Sabrina began to update her scheduling software with a list of shoots. A roving New York sex club, a lap dance tutor, a hotel for exhibitionists…Home Cinema wouldn’t know what had hit it. A lot of babies would be born nine months after the premiere, she thought, a broad smile spreading across her face.

Two years of being a production manager had made Sabrina an expert in problem-solving, but that didn’t mean it was pleasant. Laeticia made the office an oasis of sanity and order; Sabrina felt her absence keenly. The phone rang and Sabrina snatched it up, only to find a telemarketer on the other end. A raise, she thought as she hung up. Laeticia definitely deserved a raise.

Sabrina made a noise of frustration at the peremptory blat of sound in the reception room. The fax machine had gone silent; it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. With a sigh, Sabrina rose to take care of it. The signed contract for the documentary was coming through and the last thing she needed was to run out of paper in the middle of it.

She pulled open the doors of the metal cabinet that housed their office supplies. The only box of paper was unopened, which meant digging out Laeticia’s box cutter. Bumping her head on an upper shelf, she cursed just as she heard a noise behind her.

“You ought to be more careful, rushing into things like that. Then again, that always was your problem.”

Sabrina froze. The words vibrated in the silence of the room and shivered into the marrow of her bones. Slowly, she straightened up and turned, pushing the hair out of her eyes.

Stef Costas leaned against the wall just inside the door to her office. It snatched the breath from her lungs to see him there. A day-old beard darkened his jaw, framing his mouth. How she’d loved that mouth, addictive and enticing, hot and demanding on hers. How she’d loved him, once upon a time.

Once upon a time…the beginning of all good fairy tales. Theirs had been the fairy story of all time, a magical fantasy of true love.

Only they hadn’t lived happily ever after.

She concentrated on the memory, searching for composure. “Well, if it isn’t the famous Stef Costas.” She gave him a leisurely, intentionally insolent survey. It had been eight years since she’d seen him, aside from the nights he haunted her dreams. The years had stripped down his face to the sharp, tight lines of jaw and cheekbone, the black slashes of brow above midnight eyes, a sheaf of ebony hair hanging over his forehead. His was a face that conjured up thoughts of Alexander the Great, or Jason and the Argonauts. He’d grown leaner, tougher-looking and even more handsome, if that were possible. And, judging by the lack of a wedding ring, free of entanglements.

Stef gave her a mocking stare in return with those black, damn-you-to-the-devil eyes. “And if it isn’t the latest Pantolini producer.”

“Producer,” she repeated slowly, savoring the taste on her tongue. “I believe that makes me your boss, doesn’t it?” She saw a quick flash in his eyes before he banked it back. He still had a temper, that much was clear.

“The way I understood it, you were short a director. Let’s not forget I’m here doing you a favor—boss,” he said.

He also still had that annoying sense of superiority. “I don’t need a favor.” Her words were brisk, with a note of warning. “What I need is someone who can bring this documentary in on time, within budget and with the look and style I want. As long as we understand each other, we’ll do fine.”

His eyes were direct, with, she swore, a hint of enjoyment. “Yes, ma’am. Just one thing—we work with my director of photography.”

“I’ve already got a cameraman under contract.”

“Pay him off.”

“Perhaps you didn’t hear what I just said. We’re doing this on budget. My guy stays.”

“No. Gus tells me you’ve worked with him on docs before, so you know how these things go. It’s one hundred percent intuitive, and you better get the shot right the first time, particularly when it’s live action. We don’t have the time—and I don’t have the patience—to break in a new cameraman.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve been working with Kevin for seven years, he knows how I think. I don’t work without him.”

She’d dealt with cocky directors before. What was it about Stef that made her want to get in his face and match him attitude for attitude? Maybe it was the calm assurance that he’d get his way, or rather, that his way was the only way. If anything, that aura of unshakable confidence that he’d had in college had deepened and ripened with time. Unfortunately, it only made his dark looks even more appealing, she thought, leaning against the edge of Laeticia’s desk.

After all these years, Stef Costas was still stubborn, infuriating and just this side of a prima donna. He was also, in all likelihood, right about the cameraman. She could hear Gus’s voice now: “Make the maximum use of your resources. Let the talent do their jobs.” Stef was undeniably talented. She was damned if she was going to give in to him completely during their first disagreement, though. Do what’s necessary, sure, but she had another maxim—begin as you mean to go on.

It was time to set the tone for how this relationship was going to work.

Unlike when they had been lovers.

“Wait here,” Sabrina said, rising. “I’ll have a look at the budget.”



STEF WATCHED SABRINA cross into her office, his eyes following the arrogant sway of her hips. She wore tight, low-slung pants of the kind that half of the women in L.A. seemed to have adopted as a uniform over the past few years. Watching Sabrina, he suddenly understood the point. Her clingy burgundy top didn’t quite reach her belt line, just revealing the points of a stag’s horn tattoo that stretched across her lower back. He remembered that tattoo, remembered when she’d gotten it, the first in her circle to do so. And he remembered being in bed with her, tracing its pattern with his tongue.

It seemed he could never have enough of her in those days. He’d been addicted, as hooked as any junkie. He remembered how she’d felt against him, sleek and springy, humming with arousal. No matter what differences they’d had outside of the bedroom, inside it they’d clicked.

If he were honest, curiosity as much as desperation had driven him to agree to Gus’s proposal. The memory of Sabrina—her scent, the feel of her skin—had stubbornly remained in his mind. The years took their toll on everyone; he figured it would do him good to see that the bloom had worn off.

Only now, he could see that it hadn’t. One look at those deep-set sherry-brown eyes, that cap of sable curls, and it was clear the bloom had only intensified. Like wine distilled into fine cognac, Sabrina’s younger self had deepened into something far more intoxicating. When she’d been nineteen, she could stop traffic; now, he guessed, she could stop hearts.

Not his, though. Not any more.

Stef slid down into a chair along the wall and watched her stalk to a filing cabinet and rummage around in a drawer, yanking out a file. She slapped it down on her desk and sat, leaning forward to read it. Practicality had probably driven her to set her desk facing the door, so that she could easily talk to her assistant. It was just coincidence that he was sitting where it also gave him a direct view of her. He wondered if she realized just how plunging the neckline of her top was, revealing the slight cleft of her cleavage.

Outside, the late summer sun shone from a sky of deadened blue. Inside, the radio played softly, a man singing plaintively about going crazy while he looked into his ex-lover’s eyes.



THE FIGURES ON THE SHEET in front of her didn’t tell Sabrina anything she didn’t already know. She’d stashed some extra money here and there to cover the inevitable overruns. If things broke just right, she probably could pay her current cameraman his release fee and still squeak in on budget. But film projects were like unruly children, always running off in unanticipated directions. If Stef Costas wanted his personal cameraman, he was going to have to pay for it himself.

She was going to enjoy telling him that.

Sabrina glanced up and saw him sitting in one of the row of cheap office chairs next to the outer door—one elbow propped up on the backs, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He leaned his head back and watched her through slitted eyes. What he was thinking, she couldn’t say; she’d never been able to.

Except, perhaps, in bed.

She snapped the folder shut to drive the thought from her mind. There was certainly going to be none of that here. This project was her best shot at establishing herself in the business, of being taken seriously as a filmmaker. And that meant Stef would have to take her seriously as well. Scooping up the folder, she stood and walked back out to where he sat.

“Well, boss?” Stef asked mildly, as if he already knew her response.

Sabrina stifled the urge to throw the folder. It would only amuse him. “I’ll let you have your cameraman. But you’ll need to come up with the kill fee for the one I’ve got.”

Stef’s smile faded. “Really? And how do you expect me to do that?”

Now it was Sabrina’s turn to smile. “Well, there’s your hefty salary….”

“Nonnegotiable,” he said flatly.

Sabrina again sat on the edge of Laeticia’s desk, a study in affability. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“You’re the producer. Isn’t that your job?”

Do what’s necessary for the production, she told herself and let out her breath slowly. “Yes, it’s my job, but we’re on a shoestring budget and since you’ve created a problem by demanding your choice of cameraman, I’m expecting you to be a professional and help find a solution.”

Stef’s eyes sparked with annoyance, but he didn’t say anything for a moment. He tapped his fingers restlessly and stared out the window, obviously in thought. “Do you have a gaffer yet?” he asked, finally.

“No, I’m still working to find someone.”

“Kev’s assistant usually acts as our gaffer, camera assistant and best boy, all in one.”

“I hadn’t budgeted for a best boy. I didn’t figure we’d need to do dolly work.”

“You did plan to have a gaffer, though, right? You do know that to film you’ve got to have someone manage the lights?”

“Yes, Stef, I know that much.”

“Well, Mike can rig lights and do any dolly work we need, plus be Kev’s camera assistant. The money you save there should be enough to cover the other cameraman.”

Much as she hated to admit it, he was probably right. She’d been hoping to make him squirm a little longer. “Fine. Send me the information and I’ll check the numbers. If you’re right, all we have to do then is start filming and come up with a pilot that sells.”

“Doesn’t sound too hard.”

“Not as long as we deliver what Royce Schuyler expects.”

“Gus said it’s about sex,” Stef said, unperturbed. “How hard can it be? What’s your angle? The sexual revolution revisited? Sexual empowerment for women? The new chastity?”

Sabrina moved to Laeticia’s chair and permitted herself a small smile. She was going to enjoy this. “Footage of exhibitionist couples in the act? A sex toy factory? Men who do origami with their cocks?” She would have savored watching his jaw drop more if he hadn’t looked so damned gorgeous. “Don’t tell me I’ve shocked you, Stef. You used to be made of sterner stuff.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You can’t put that kind of stuff on TV,” he said positively.

“Who said anything about TV? Cable,” she enunciated as though for a child. “It’s for late-night cable. Have you seen what they run these days? Trust me, this footage will be tame by comparison. It’ll just be more interesting because it’s the real thing.” She pulled a list of topics from the folder and handed it to Stef. “The first shoot is an ex-stripper who has house parties teaching women to lap dance and take it all off for their husbands.”

“No way.”

“Royce Schuyler was drooling over the idea,” she said with relish.

“He couldn’t have been drooling too much or you’d have come away with a contract.”

“Come on,” she snapped. “No one gets a contract for a doc series sight unseen. He liked the concept, though. Bring the wild side to Middle America. It’ll be sexy. It’ll be fun.”

“No. Not just no, but hell no.” Stef walked up to brace his hands on the desk and lean in toward her. “You are out of your mind if you think I’m going to have anything to do with this kind of project. I’ve got backers who would never return my phone calls if they knew about it.”

Sabrina leaned back in her chair and reminded herself to keep her cool. “No problem. Walk out. I’ll just tell Gus that you’re not interested,” she said airily. He had to be pretty desperate, she figured, or he wouldn’t be in the same room with her. “Of course, he might be a little disappointed to find out you’re not going through with your side of the deal.”

“It’s not a deal, it’s a favor.”

Sabrina’s smile widened. “In Hollywood, it’s the same thing, Stef. Of course, I realize that you’ve always been above…commercial ventures. Cheer up, sugar. It won’t sting so much after a while.” She rose and leaned toward him to give him a careless, dismissive kiss on the forehead.

It was a mistake.



IT WAS MORE INSTINCT than intention. Without thinking, Stef angled his head to find Sabrina’s mouth. To teach her a lesson…to test them both…to show himself that the past was done. He could have given himself any of those reasons. Any of them would have been easier to accept than the possibility that he just wanted to find out if she felt the same.

Then the heat flared through him and he didn’t have to wonder any more why he’d done it.

The taste of her flooded him with delight, like the flavor of some decadent, long-denied dessert. It sucked him back through the years to their first kiss, their last kiss and everything in between. Cool and smooth, her lips were slightly parted at first in shock. He heard her soft, smothered sound of surprise and faint protest; then her mouth was avid and hot against his. Sensations blurred, the sultry scent of her rising around him, the silky strands of her hair spilling over his fingers as he framed her face with his hands.

He wanted more, wanted to have her body naked and quaking under his, to see if she still moved the same way, made the same noises. To see if the same things still turned her on. Then he heard her sigh and felt her surrender herself to the moment.

Small sounds were deafening in the tiny room: the stroke of skin, soft exhale of breath. On the radio, a silky guitar line twined over the voice of a man singing about conquering a lover. Sun spilled across them where it came in the window.

And two people stood, caught in a moment that telescoped the years into nothingness.



SABRINA LIFTED A HAND to Stef’s hair, running her fingers through it. She struggled to keep a sense of self, but the sensation overwhelmed her. It was as though she’d spent the past eight years trying chair after chair, finding each uncomfortable, and suddenly the words in her mind were oh, this fits, as she sank back into it.

Into him.

It had been so long since the touch of a man had felt so right. And such small touches, only the tantalizing brush of lips, the erotic intimacy of a tongue, and featherlight slip of fingertips over her cheek. Smooth, liquid and slow, the pleasure flowed through her. Time and thought receded. There was only the now, with its endless resonances of before.

Then the door slammed back and someone hurtled into the office with a joyous cry.

“It’s a boy!” Laeticia stood in the doorway holding out a bottle of champagne, her triumphant expression morphing into shock as she saw Sabrina and Stef jerk apart. “Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, come in. We were just…” Sabrina willed her pulse to steady. It hadn’t meant anything, she told herself, just a kiss like any other. The important thing was not to react. She moved swiftly around the desk to pull Laeticia into a hug. “Congratulations, Auntie.”

“Yeah, well, I should get out of here.”

“Not at all,” Sabrina said with a hint of panic, drawing Laeticia into a chair. It gave her time to think, time to remember how absolutely done with Stef she was, had been for years. “I want to hear all about it.” And she did, too. “Mr. Costas was just leaving.”

“Not quite yet,” Stef countered, looking irritatingly unruffled. “We still need to finish that preproduction meeting.”

“I thought it was finished. You clearly don’t want to make the pilot that I’ve already pitched to the cable chief. I’ve got to deliver what he verbally committed to. Guess that means I have to get a different director.”

“I’m your director,” he said flatly.

“Not if you don’t want to make the documentary I’m selling.”

“Don’t forget the contract.” He nodded toward the fax machine where Laeticia was unobtrusively changing the paper.

“The contract just says we work together on a pilot. Period.”

Stef looked at her, amused. “Excuse us,” he said to Laeticia, and pulled Sabrina into her office, closing the door.

“Don’t manhandle me,” she spat.

“I’m not. I’m just trying to get some privacy. We have a contract to work on this project together,” he said calmly.

“Fine.” An edge entered Sabrina’s voice. “Then we do it my way.”

“No,” Stef shook his head, “we do it our way.”

“And what way is that? You were never much good at compromises, Stef.”

“Neither were you,” he said, looking at her stubborn jaw. “Looks like this will be a learning experience for both of us.”

Sabrina took a step closer to him, eyes defiant. “The first thing you should learn is not to assume that anything you once knew still applies. I’m not a teenager anymore.”

“No,” he agreed, running his gaze over her, “you’re all grown-up.”

“And I’ve grown out of a lot of things. I’ve found my focus.”

“And that is?”

“Making provocative entertainment.”

“It didn’t take growing up to teach you how to be provocative,” he said, lifting a hand toward her cheek. “I think you had that from the day you were born.”

Sabrina took a sudden, quick breath and backed away from him. “I grew out of something else in the last eight years, Stef.”

“What?”

“You.” She opened the door to the reception room and looked at him impassively. “First shoot is in Glendale. A stripper who teaches lap dancing to housewives at lunch.”

“That’s pathetic.”

“Give it a chance. This isn’t your kind of documentary, Stef. It’s mine.”

“Your kind would change topics every five minutes.”

Sabrina’s gaze chilled. “Leave your card with Laeticia. I’ll e-mail you the details. And Stef?” She paused. “Don’t think you know me just because I made the mistake of sleeping with you a long time ago.”




4


“SO WHAT DO YOU THINK, the green or the cream?” Kelly asked, nibbling on her thumb as she stared at the couches arrayed across the showroom at Civilization.

Sabrina sat on the cream couch experimentally, running her hand over the woven cotton fabric. “You know me, I’d probably go for the leopard one. You should ask Paige. Or better yet, get her to take you to the Pacific Design Center.”

“Oh yeah, sure.” Kelly dropped down beside her. “Paige would blow my budget on a single coffee table, then tell me the way to decorate was to invest in one signature piece at a time. And five years later, I’d actually have a completed living room.”

Sabrina fought a smile. “Well, it’s not going to be perfect overnight.”

“I don’t want perfect. I just want a room that’s not furnished in Early American Garage Sale. You know Cilla offered to let me pick what I wanted from the Danforth home shop at cost,” she asked with a grin.

“Why didn’t you take her up on it?”

“Uh, right. Like I could even afford that at cost.”

Sabrina turned and looked across the room at the array of couches. “What color are you doing the walls in again?”

“Sage.” Kelly handed over the paint chip. “Cream trim. The coffee table’s blond wood.”

Sabrina rose and began stalking between the couches, glancing at the chip in her hand.

Kelly trailed her anxiously. “Just don’t do a Paige on me. Nothing in the back three rows.”

“I should get myself some furniture one of these days,” Sabrina muttered.

“Why don’t you? What I don’t understand is why you live in Venice when you could live anywhere.”

Sabrina shrugged and leaned over to inspect the fabric of a floral couch. “What’s wrong with Venice?”

“Why not Brentwood? Or the Westwood Corridor?”

“It’s not like it’s a wreck. I like Venice. I like the canals. It feels right to me.”

“But you’ve got all of L.A. at your fingertips,” Kelly protested.

“I suppose,” Sabrina said absently. “But I’m happy where I am.”

“I wish I could say that.”

“But you’ve got a great little flat,” Sabrina protested, thinking of Kelly’s little 1940s courtyard apartment.

“Sure, if you don’t count the triple-X movie theater on the main boulevard.”

“At least you’ve got entertainment nearby.”

“Sorry, I’ll take my porn at home like everyone else, thanks. Anyway, it’s not the flat. I just wish the neighborhood were better. Next promotion, I’m moving.” She smiled faintly.

“What about a roommate?”

Kelly shook her head again, more definitely. “No way. I like living alone. I mean, it was one thing to share a house with all you guys when we were in college, but it’s different now. I like my privacy.”

“Are you sure? You could move in with me.”

Kelly nodded. “Naw, I like being able to come home and have wild sex on the kitchen counter if I feel like it. But if you move to Brentwood sometime, you can ask me again.”

“Okay.” Sabrina slowed, then walked purposefully to a couch set up next to a distressed armoire. “That one.”

It was an overstuffed sofa in a deep plum, with a slight deco flare to the arms.

“You’re out of your mind. It’s a green room. Why would I want to go with purple?”

“It’ll look ravishing, trust me.” Sabrina’s tone was brisk. “Green is too matchy matchy, cream is boring, slate is predictable. This will be just the bit of shock that you need.”

Kelly frowned. “This isn’t one of your bizarre design statements, is it? I don’t want bohemian chic, I want something that looks stylish.”

“Trust me,” Sabrina said simply and held out the paint chip.



“OKAY, A GLASS OF the ten-year tawny and one cosmopolitan,” said the waitress. “I’ll be right back with your cheese plate.”

They sat at a patio table at Morels in the Grove, watching people walk by. A cross between Disney’s Main Street USA and the Mall of America, spiced with a snip of Paris, the Grove had sprung up next to the L.A. Farmers’ Market and had quickly become a place to be. Kids loved it for the old-fashioned streetcar that ran down pavement untouched by a car. Parents liked it because it was safe and contained, and full of goodies to buy.

Sabrina liked it because it held Morels, the only restaurant in town that boasted a cheese list as long as its wine list.

Sabrina raised her glass of port. “To your new furniture.”

“To you, for helping me choose,” Kelly countered, clicking her glass against Sabrina’s.

“The living room’s going to look great.”

“I’m actually excited about the kitchen table. I’m just trying not to think about the fact that I just killed my savings account. How in the hell do people make themselves buy houses,” she muttered, taking a sip of her drink.

“Oh, come on, remember your promotion. You should be rolling in it now.”

“I don’t know about that, although certainly senior writers make better money than associate editors.”

“There, see? How’s the new job going, anyway?”

Kelly grinned. “Pretty well. I’ve been getting out on interviews a lot. I just got to report from the set of Matt Ramsay’s new film,” she said with a gleam in her eye. “Hey, how come you never invite him to any of our parties, anyway? You never even invited him to the drama productions back when we were all at UCLA.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to get anywhere near my cousin.”

“What, is he a jerk? You’ve always talked about him like he’s a nice guy.”

“Oh, the nicest. Totally sincere. Fatally.” Their waiter set their cheese plate at the table. Sabrina shook her head and reached out to spread Gorgonzola on a slice of brioche. “That’s the problem, he’s fatally sincere. A woman catches his eye and suddenly he’s nuts for her. He’s telling everyone who’ll listen that she’s the one. And the woman, whoever she is, eventually falls for it, because he believes it himself. Then he sees that she’s only human and the infatuation wears off. After that, it just gets ugly. He’s an incredibly creative and interesting guy in every other way, but I’d never in a million years let anyone I actually liked date him.”

“Sabrina, how long have you known me?”

Sabrina counted in her head. “Nine years. God, has it really been that long?”

“Probably. And in all that time, have I ever said anything about looking for true love?”

“No, but—”

“Have I?”

“No.”

“Then what makes you think I’d go all doe-eyed over your cousin?”

“It’s this mind control thing he gets going. You wouldn’t mean to, but you wouldn’t be able to help it.”

“Trust me, I’d help it.” Kelly waved the waiter over and ordered another drink. “Anyway, never mind. I’m not interested in any guy who’s going to go all gaga over me anyway. I want a good time, good sex and a hot career. I’d rather stick with the ones who know how the game’s played.” She waved her hand. “Speaking of games, how’s the great American documentary going?”

“Okay,” Sabrina said noncommittally, nibbling on an almond. “So are you going to the premiere?”

“Don’t try to change the subject. Last time I saw you, you were dancing on air over this thing. What, are you having problems now?”

“No, everything’s fine, great.”

Kelly’s eyes narrowed fractionally; then she relaxed, glancing over at the dancing water fountain next to the restaurant. “You know, we have known each other a long time,” she said, leaning back in her chair and looking at Sabrina. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you, but did you know that every time you lie, there’s this little muscle by the corner of your eye that starts to twitch?”

Sabrina choked on her drink.

“What’s going on, Pantolini? Something’s up.”

“Nothing’s up.”

“Boy, look at that thing go,” Kelly said with enjoyment, and began digging in her purse. “I know I’ve got a mirror in here somewhere. You oughtta take a look. It’s really something.”

Sabrina scowled at her. “I get the idea.”

“So?”

“I just had some problems lining up a director. Mine bolted for another project before we had him locked in.”

“Are you going to be able to find someone else in time?”

Sabrina chewed on her lip. “That’s where the problem comes in. My uncle Gus came up with someone, which was a good thing since I’d scoured the town and couldn’t find anybody.”

“Why do I want to say uh-oh?”

“It’s Stef Costas.”

Kelly blinked at her. “Stef?”

“Stef.”

“The Greek god? Are you out of your mind?”

“It’s okay, Kelly.”

“Rina, there has to be someone else around. You can’t work with this guy. You talk about not letting your friends go near your cousin with a ten-foot pole, what about this?”

“It’s history, Kelly, eight years ago. It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Sabrina muttered.

“Are you sure of that? Don’t forget what he put you through. I haven’t. I was the shoulder you cried on.”

And Sabrina would never stop being grateful for it. “I was nineteen then. I’ve gotten smarter. I can work with the guy without letting old news get in the way.”

Kelly gave her a level look. “I hope you’re right.”

“It’s business, that’s all. If I’ve learned nothing else since working for Uncle Gus it’s that you get the job done, no matter what.” Sabrina’s voice was shaded with intensity. “You don’t let anything get in the way of the job, especially nothing personal.”

“Nothing personal? He broke your heart.”

“Look,” Sabrina’s voice softened. “I appreciate your being concerned, but it’s okay, really. We set some ground rules. He knows I’m in charge.”

“You sure about that? Because it would be a really bad idea to be going into this thinking that you’re going to rewrite history or something. Sexual politics never got anyone anywhere.”

“Trust me, the only thing I’m thinking about is getting this pilot done the best way I know how. As far as I’m concerned, Stef Costas is just another person on the set.”

Kelly shook her head. “Sure. And denial is a river in Egypt.”




5


“SO WHAT GOT YOU interested in teaching lap dancing?” Sabrina sat on a couch next to a ripe redhead named Cherry Devine, ignoring the lights and the microphone dangling overhead. “I mean, if you teach wives and girlfriends to do this for their significant others, isn’t that ultimately going to cut into your clientele?”

The lush stripper threw her head back and laughed. “Honey, the guys who come to see me are looking for a pro, not someone they really have to deal with.” Her red silk robe gaped open with a studied carelessness to display the lingerie—and the soft skin—beneath. The camera angle worked, Sabrina decided, giving a nod to Stef. It made Cherry the sole focus, so that they could edit down to just comments rather than Q and A in postproduction.

Stef gave a quick hand signal to the cameraman to zoom in just slightly. Black-eyed and intense, his dark hair curling onto the collar of his denim shirt, Stef looked calm and in command. He also looked outrageously sexy, Sabrina thought. Which was something she had to stop noticing, and pronto.

“How did you wind up in lap dancing?”

Cherry dangled a cigarette from her fingers with innate theatricality. “I like showing off my body. Being a stripper is one way to make a living at it.”

“It doesn’t bother you to be on stage naked with a room full of men watching you?” The question wasn’t part of the script, but Sabrina followed her instincts.

Cherry’s laugh was husky and confident. “When I’m up on that stage, I own the room. Every man with a pulse wants me. I’m the one in control.” She blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling and glanced appraisingly at Stef. “Being able to get a man hot is the most powerful feeling in the world.”

“So teach us how it’s done,” Sabrina suggested, resisting the sudden urge to grind her teeth.

Cherry stood and eased her robe off one shoulder. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

The red and gold living room was crowded with the six couples who’d come for her class, as well as the film crew. “Okay, each couple, pull up a chair. Guys, take a seat. Ladies, stand nearby,” she said, setting a straight-backed chair in the center of the living room to demonstrate.

Sabrina moved over by Stef. “Aren’t you going to move in with the handheld to get footage on some of these people?” She kept her voice low.

“In good time.”

“How much time do you think we have?” she asked.

“Look, if we move around too much now, we’re going to draw their attention. Right now, we stay in one place, they’ll start relaxing and you can get some good candid footage. Just calm down and let me direct, all right?”

Sabrina stared at him a moment, then subsided, turning her attention back to Cherry.

“My usual assistant isn’t here,” Cherry said, “which means I don’t have anyone to demonstrate on. I could use a spare red-blooded male.” She rested a hand on the chair back and glanced around the room; then her eyes brightened. “You, big boy,” she crooked her finger at Stef, who stood next to his cameraman, Kev. “Have a seat.”

“Sorry, I’m busy,” he said tersely.

“Ooh, I just love masterful men,” she cooed, walking up to him to curl her fingers into his shirtfront. “Just give me a few minutes of your time. You don’t even have to do anything but sit.” She turned, still holding on to his shirt and started to tug him across the room.

Emotions chased through Sabrina in rapid succession—confusion, shock, dismay, and a surprising spurt of jealousy. “He can’t do it,” she bit out. “Pick someone else.”

Cherry looked back curiously at Sabrina. Her eyes flickered to Stef and then her gaze sharpened. “Ah.” Slowly, the corners of Cherry’s mouth drew up into a smile.

“He can’t appear in the footage. He’s the director,” Sabrina persisted.

Cherry gave her a glance. “Don’t worry, sugar pie, I’ll make sure I stay between him and the camera.”

With a glance to make sure Stef was seated, she sashayed over to punch the Play button on the CD player. Rock music filled the room, not the slow bluesy number Sabrina had expected, but something a little faster, with a beat that thudded into her brain. There was something familiar about that beat, she thought. Not too fast, not too slow, it had the beat of…

It had the beat of sex.

Cherry turned back to her class. “You’ve got to have music you can move to. There is no right or wrong, so long as it’s sexy to you and your partner, it works.” Around the room, here and there, people nodded to the beat. One of the men, who looked like a junior high school principal, reached up and ran a hand down his partner’s hip; she leaned back against him with a smile of promise.

“Thanks, Paul, you just handed me the perfect lead-in,” Cherry said to him. “I’m sure you all know the basic idea of a lap dance—the dancer is allowed to touch the client, but he’s not allowed to touch her. Or him,” she added looking around at the men in the room. “Don’t think that your job is just to sit there, fellas. We’ll have you doing the dances by the end of the lesson.” There was a bit of uncomfortable laughter. “By holding back, by not allowing the client to touch you, you turn touching you into the only thing he can think about. That’s where the tease comes in.”

Suddenly, she began to move to the beat, the sway of hip and flow of shoulders all the more riveting for the lack of introduction. She shrugged her shoulders and the robe slipped down her arms to a crimson pool at her feet. “The tease and the promise are everything.” She ran a hand through Stef’s hair as she straddled his lap. “Of course, everyone in the room here is lucky—you’ll actually get your dancer to come through on that promise, won’t you,” she said, looking into Stef’s taut face.

Sabrina could cheerfully have scratched the woman’s eyes out. It shouldn’t bother her, she told herself, watching Cherry slide around on Stef while a roomful of people eyed them avidly. It didn’t matter to her what he did. She was over him.

She had to be.

Eventually, Cherry finished and Sabrina’s jaw loosened. The stripper threw Sabrina a grin and then addressed her class. “All right, ladies, listen to the music. Now just stand in front of your man and touch yourself. Run your hands down your hips, up your arms, or anywhere else you’d like to,” she said, demonstrating. “Get yourself turned on and get him thinking about touching you—because he can’t, and you want him to want it more than he’s ever wanted anything. You want to blow the top of his head off.”

Sabrina looked around the room as Stef rose to return to directing.

“Did you have fun?” she asked, just a bit of bite in her voice.

“Did I have a choice?” he returned. “You’re running this shoot, why didn’t you pull her off?”

“Weren’t you the one who always said you never did anything you didn’t choose to?”

“You want to last in this business, you learn to cooperate.”

A woman could drown in those black eyes, she thought. But not her. “Great. Then how about if you start by getting some footage with a handheld?”

“Not now.”

“Oh, really. If not now, when?”

“When they stop looking around at one another. You go with how it feels.” He shrugged. “Maybe in a little while. Maybe never.”

“Thanks for being so precise.”

“Maybe when you stop drawing attention to us by talking.”

“It’s not like they don’t know we’re here,” Kev murmured from behind Stef. “Let’s see if we can blend in. Sabrina, maybe if you move around the room and let them start talking to you, it’ll get things going.”

With his jeans, T-shirt and untidily cropped hair, Kev looked like someone’s kid brother, but there was a casual efficiency to his motions that spoke of long experience. He might have a point, Sabrina acknowledged. She wondered if it said something about her character that it was easier to take suggestions from him than from Stef.

She began to wander slowly through the room, watching the students. It was just like life. Some of the couples were earnest and focused on doing the exercise properly, as though they were going to be graded. Some were self-conscious, looking miserably aware of being in public and on camera. Most of them, though, looked like they were just getting turned on—not just by the lesson, but by watching their fellow students.

So maybe the tidy Glendale neighborhoods weren’t just about coffee klatches and the PTA, she thought with a smile. Maybe they had their share of swingers, too. She’d intended this segment as a tool to draw the average viewer into a world where sexual rules went out the window. Each segment of the doc would take them further, bit by bit, so they wouldn’t really notice it. But maybe she’d miscalculated. Maybe, just maybe, Middle America had come further than she realized.

“What a cool thing,” she murmured, starting when she realized that she’d spoken aloud.

“We just wanted to spice things up a little bit,” said a thin brunette named Miranda, casually flipping her silk robe to cover her bare breast. “You’ve got to be open to new things.”

Miranda’s partner George, who looked like he might work at the local lube shop, just nodded. Sabrina suspected he’d be all in favor of anything leading to quality sheet time.

“We tried a tantric sex class, but I wanted something with more action,” Miranda said. “Of course, sitting in the middle of a roomful of people having sex isn’t so bad,” she giggled, and began to move on George’s lap again.

Sabrina moved over to the school principal and his partner. He was stripped down to a silk G-string and giving his partner a surprisingly good lap dance. He rubbed his green silk-clad crotch against the blonde, letting her feel his hard-on while he traced his fingers down over her breasts. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you,” he whispered, staring into her eyes.

Now this was a motivated man, Sabrina thought. This was a group of people who knew how to make it fun, how to make it sexy, how to make it about them.

Cherry crossed over to where Sabrina stood with Kev and Stef. “So, are you enjoying yourselves?”

“It’s been educational,” Sabrina said. “You always get a crowd like this?”

“Sometimes more. You should come out on a weekend night. People really let their hair down then,” she said with a sidelong glance at Stef. “I think you’d like it.”

“Well, it looks like we’ve got everything we need,” Sabrina said thinly.

Cherry glanced from Stef to Sabrina and nodded. “Excellent.” The song ended and she raised her voice a little. “Of course, it hardly seems fair to send off the film crew without a little bit of instruction, does it, gang?” she asked the group. “You two,” she crooked her finger at Sabrina and Stef, “over here.”

Surprise had Sabrina laughing. Some other time with some other person, maybe, but Stef? No way. “Thanks, but we need to finish up here and get going.”

“Nope, you’ve got to do at least one dance if you’re going to report on it. Them’s the rules.”

Sabrina picked up her notepad. “I learned plenty by watching.”

“Well, then it will be easy to demonstrate for us.”

Suddenly, it wasn’t nearly as amusing. “I’m hardly dressed for it,” she said, gesturing down at her miniskirt.

“We’re not exactly dressed ourselves,” Cherry purred. “Besides, short skirts work well for lap dancing.”

Stef shook his head. “I’ve done my volunteer work today.”

Kev suddenly became intensely interested in reviewing some playback, eyes locked on his equipment.

Cherry studied Stef coolly. “You know, that’s an awfully uptight attitude to take, especially since everyone in this room has signed a release to let you film us for national broadcast without asking for a dime.” She looked around at the women standing in lingerie and the men, many of whom were wearing only robes. There were murmurs and nods of agreements, then someone began a slow, measured clap.





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