“Tell me what you want from me, Melissa.”

Melissa took a deep breath. “I…I want to try new things. I want an adventure. Something I can remember when I’m fifty and I’ve been with the same guy for twenty years. I want anything and everything but the same old missionary grind.”

Riley slid his hands up her thighs to her waist. “I understand,” he murmured, tightening his hold into a strong, reassuring grip.

She pressed herself against him, shocked to feel him hard between them. Oh, man. He wants me. A guy like this…

He led her over to the couch and pulled her down across his lap, kissing her all the while. She sank against him, totally carried away by the man and his mouth. Then his hands came up under her skirt, skimmed her thighs and settled on the mound of her sex through her panties.

Arousal seared through her; she gasped and arched up instinctively for more pressure, shocked by his boldness, shocked by her own. She’d never been this hot, this ready….

If he touched her, she’d die. If he didn’t, she’d die faster.

Dear Reader,

Harlequin Blaze is a supersexy new series. If you like love stories with a strong sexual edge then this is the line for you! The books are fun and flirtatious, the heroes are hot and outrageous. Blaze is a series for the woman who wants more in her reading pleasure….

This month bestselling Harlequin Presents author Miranda Lee delivers #9 Just a Little Sex…about one night of passion that turns into much more! Rising star Jamie Denton says you need to break the rules in #10 Sleeping With the Enemy, a story with sizzling sexual tension and erotic love scenes. Talented Isabel Sharpe takes us to #11 The Wild Side, a fun, lusty tale about a good girl who decides bad might be better. Popular Janelle Denison rounds out the month with #12 Heat Waves, another SEXY CITY NIGHTS story set in fiery Chicago—where the heat definitely escalates after dark….

Look for four Blaze books every month at your favorite bookstore. And check us out online at eHarlequin.com and tryblaze.com.

Enjoy!

Birgit Davis-Todd

Senior Editor & Editorial Coordinator

Harlequin Blaze

The Wild Side
Isabel Sharpe

To Barbara, Elizabeth, Heather, Karen and Susie,

who deserve public recognition for twenty-plus years

listening to my sorrows, laughing at my jokes

and tolerating my neuroses as only the best friends do.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR…

I’ve always preferred Mr. Personality to dark brooding hunks. Guys with whom I could imagine enjoying morning-after conversation almost as much as how we spent the previous evening. This is one of the reasons I love writing for Harlequin Duets, which is where you may have met me before.

But…to my surprise, I absolutely loved writing Riley, the darkest, broodingest, hunkiest hero I’ve ever created. I had a blast messing up his precise, controlled life by assigning him Melissa, whose natural humor, quirky cynicism and frank desire for sexual experimentation rattle him in a way he’s not at all prepared for.

Throw in stolen jewelled art, a little suspense and a secondary couple who have an equally rocky journey to love, and you’ve taken a walk with me on The Wild Side.

Enjoy!

P.S. I love hearing from readers. Write to me at IsaSharpe@aol.com.

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

Prologue

ROSE BLEW HER NOSE, then added the tissue to the pile on her pink-and-white rose-print bedspread. She glanced at the clock and collapsed into another spasm of sobbing. It was 9:00 a.m. Half an hour since the tears had started. This bout should be wrapping up pretty soon.

She’d finally gotten to where she could view her crying fits philosophically. Months could go by without them, but sooner or later, one would catch up with her. Put them down to exhaustion, maybe mild depression, hormones…whatever.

At first she’d thought she was going crazy. Now she considered the tears a harmless and probably healthy form of stress relief. Since her apartment had been broken into, the crying jags had been coming more frequently. Little wonder. That sense of unease, of her privacy being violated, had lingered, as if the intruder were still hiding in her home.

Ten minutes later, the sobs subsided into shuddering sighs, then hiccups. Rose blew her nose again and gathered up the tissues to take to the trash, giving one last sigh—of relief this time. She crossed to the window, over the colorful rugs strewn on her hardwood floor, wincing when she put weight on the foot His Royal Majesty, Prince Rajid of Saudi Arabia, had stepped on last night. Sweet guy. Rotten dancer.

But then they all had some flaw, fatal or otherwise—not that she had perfection sewn up by any means. Deep down she suspected the man didn’t exist who could make her fall so far in love she’d forsake all others. Though on some level, however shallow, she did love all the men she dated, from the bottoms of their feet to the tops of their enormous, fragile egos. She loved how they looked at her, how they made her feel. Loved the power she had to entice or amuse or excite them. The only thing she’d ever really been good at. Like an alcoholic or a smoker, she was addicted. To men.

But real take-over-your-soul love? She doubted she was capable of it. Her personal fatal flaw, perhaps.

Rose wiped away the last tear from her cheek and drew aside the white lace curtain to see if the van across the street was still parked there. Before the break-in and before that horrible threatening letter, her addiction had seemed harmless. She got everything she wanted. The men got most of what they wanted. Now someone wanted more from her than a good time. And she hadn’t a clue who it was or what it was all about. Someone stalking her? An angry ex-beau? A few men had protested when she’d ended their relationship, but most had parted on friendly terms and gone off on their next hunt.

Maybe it was something in the apartment. She’d gotten plenty of gifts over the years. Maybe some guy had given her heirloom jewelry by mistake and Mama wanted it back.

She could only hope it was that easy.

The van sat across Garden Street, as usual. Ted’s TV Repair. She shivered and swallowed more threatening tears. Call her paranoid, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her from that van. She ought to call the police and ask them to check it out. Of course, it could be the police, keeping close tabs since the break-in. Either way, police or criminal, Rose felt threatened, claustrophobic.

So much for her Total Relaxation Saturdays.

Her phone rang; she jumped and pulled her bathrobe more tightly around her. People she loved knew Saturday was her no-phone, vegging day. The day she always refused invitations, in some perverse homage to the dateless Saturdays she’d suffered in high school. It was her day to sit home in her pajamas with the frogs on them, watch bad TV, eat chocolate, write letters the nurses could read to her mom…. Her day of regression. No social responsibilities. No cleaning. No makeup. No men.

The machine picked up the call. Clicked. Clicked again. Senator Alvin Mason’s patrician voice played on the tape. “Come on, Rose. I know you’re there. Pick up. It’s important.”

Rose’s brows drew down. He sounded strange…strained. Unusual for Mr. Hearty-Sound-Bite. They’d dated for a few months, a year or so ago, before he decided he’d have more political success as a married man, and had gone hunting for a suitable wife.

She picked up. “I’m here.”

“How are you, Rose?”

Rose frowned. He didn’t sound like he gave a rat’s ass how she felt. And she could have sworn she heard a truck go by in the background. Was one of Massachusetts’s most illustrious politicians calling from a pay phone? “I’m okay. You sound horrible. Where are you calling fr—”

“I heard about the break-in.” He nearly shouted to be heard over another engine. “They didn’t take anything.”

“No.” She wrapped the phone cord around a tight fist. How did he know that? “I got a letter, too, two days ago. Telling me to watch out.” Massachusetts’s Senator-for-the-Wholesome-Family swore obscenely. For one sweet moment, Rose allowed herself to feel pleasure at his protectiveness. Then scoffed at her own Cinderella-bullcrap mentality.

“This wasn’t supposed to—” He swore again.

Rose held absolutely still. The phone cord swayed gently against the wooden end table her great-great-grandmother had brought over from England. Oh, God. He was part of it. “You know something about this?”

She barely recognized her own voice. Not the sweet, sexy girl everyone thought she was, but harsh, hard-edged. A grown woman afraid for her life.

The senator took a deep breath, audible even over the traffic noise. “Rose…”

She closed her eyes; her body began to shake.

“Rose…” His voice was quiet, calm, deadly serious. “I think you should go away for a while.”

1

RILEY ANDERSON LOWERED himself into the grimy booth opposite Charlie Watson, captain in the Boston Police Force and primary supporter of the city’s greasy spoon establishments. Hands folded on the table, Riley greeted him and sat straight, regarding Watson evenly so as not to betray either interest or suspicion. Cops didn’t summon private investigators to out-of-the-way burger joints unless they were in deep.

“Thing is…” Watson tossed back the last French fry and looked wistfully at his empty plate. “Thing is, I wouldn’t come to you unless it was an absolute last resort. We’ve got plenty of people on the force who could handle this.”

Riley nodded, not rising to the bait, not moving, though the booth hit his back in uncomfortable places. Holding still and watching went a long way toward making people reveal things they weren’t planning to—if they were hiding anything in the first place. The jury was still out on the captain.

Watson took a gulp of soda from a gargantuan cup and plopped it down in what he probably thought was a powerful gesture. He narrowed his eyes, which were an incongruous shade of ice-blue against his pale, flabby face. “Truth is, we have a situation. Involving important people. Very important. Another situation at the station. Very bad. I can’t risk—”

“Captain.” Riley lifted one eyebrow a fraction, all he’d allow to show of his impatience. “The point. Get to it.”

Watson crushed a burger wrapper and tossed it onto his tray, pale eyes never leaving Riley’s face. “Okay, you want it straight? I’ll give it to you straight. I don’t like having to come to you—don’t like it at all. But we got a leak at the station. Someone has developed a big mouth, and his big mouth is jeopardizing the investigation. I can’t trust anyone. You, I trust. I don’t like you, but I trust you.”

Riley nodded. He didn’t like or trust Charlie Watson, but now was probably not the best time to say so. “What’s the job?”

“It involves the apartment of a certain woman named Rose. Just Rose. Like Cher is just Cher.” He pushed back a few combed-over strands of hair that had broken free of whatever glue he used to hold them in place. “We think she might have received stolen property, possibly unwittingly. Property we are anxious to return to…the previous owners. She reported a break-in recently, nothing taken. Someone knows or suspects she’s got the goods. We’re watching the place in case someone makes another move, but I don’t want my detectives poking around until I know who I can trust.”

Riley clenched his teeth. Getting information out of the captain was like playing twenty questions. He leaned forward and fixed Watson with an even stare. “What would I be looking for?”

“Art.” The captain groped in his pocket and came up with a roll of antacids, avoiding Riley’s eyes. “An antique miniature portrait. Jeweled frame. Supposed to be worth a ton, what the hell do I know about it? But it’s more than that. We want you to be Rose’s special new friend, and figure out what the hell she knows.”

Riley relaxed his jaw, willing himself to be patient. “Who is Rose and where does she fit?”

Watson looked around, as if the elderly couple on one side and the frazzled mom with four kids on the other could be undercover agents. He propped his elbows on the table, hefted his bulk forward and beckoned Riley closer. “Here’s the thing. She’s supposed to be a total babe. Different guy every night. You know the type. We talked to some of the guys she used to date. Get this. They all had a completely different description of her: clothes, hair, eye color, even personality. But definitely the same Rose. This chick completely reinvents herself for whatever man she’s with. Can you beat that? Dates ‘em for a while, they go nuts over her, shower her with gifts, then she’s on to the next one. When she reported the break-in, she had my toughest detective whipped in about ten minutes. Some operator.”

Watson blew out an admiring whistle that grated on Riley’s nerves. What the hell was there to admire in a woman like that? “So some smitten sop gave her the portrait for her personal enrichment.”

“Ha! Not likely.” Watson slapped his fist on his thigh, obviously missing Riley’s sarcasm. “His physical enrichment, more like it.”

Riley compressed his lips, which wanted to curl in disgust. Just the type of woman you’d like to bring home to Mom for Sunday dinner. But the case intrigued him for some reason he couldn’t quite pin down. Watson knew a hell of a lot more than he was telling. “Who were the previous owners of the portrait?”

“That’s where I cut you off, Anderson.” Watson’s eyes narrowed into puffy slits. “This is police business. You get into her place and find the portrait. Report back to me on your progress. Don’t call the station, don’t talk to anyone else about this. If word got out among my men that you’re involved I’d have a mutiny.”

Riley nodded, blood pumping. This case had to be about more than wealthy art lovers wanting their precious portrait back. He wanted in.

He moved his jaw to fight back a grin. Slate would love it. Riley’s comrade-in-arms, partner and best friend was currently at the family cottage on the coast of Maine, mourning his mother’s death from cancer.

Riley and Slate had been a successful, and eventually highly decorated, Marine Recon fighting unit that had earned the respect of their peers and commanders alike. Gemini. The twins. In the field they’d developed such a bond that they barely needed to speak when they went on missions. If Riley’s instincts proved correct, and he’d need to do some digging to see, this case might induce Slate to return to civilization after the long year spent nursing his mom. It had been too long since they’d worked together.

Riley nodded again at Watson. “I’ll do it.”

“Not a tough assignment. I’m guessing the way you look, you won’t have any trouble getting friendly with this Rose character.” Watson sniggered and tipped back his soda cup, then cursed as an avalanche of crushed ice spilled onto his face and shirt.

Riley allowed himself a faint smile. If only justice got meted out so quickly all the time.

He stayed at the restaurant just long enough to agree on terms, preferring fresh air to deep-fat-fryer fumes, and preferring nearly anyone to Charlie Watson for company. Then he pushed open the bell-jangling door and headed for Cambridge street, inhaling the warm late-June air. Tourists flocked among the pigeons on City Hall Plaza; the breeze in his face brought the faint tang of the sea from nearby Boston Harbor. Riley headed for the Government Center T stop. Might as well take a look at this Rose woman’s apartment building this afternoon. Check out the scene, formulate a plan, then do some digging. Send Slate a telegram if he uncovered anything worthwhile.

The unmistakable nerve-burning sensation of being watched made him hesitate in his stride for a fraction of a second. He waited until he came opposite the low brick wall surrounding the entrance to the T, then turned, keeping the wall at his back.

A man. Clean-cut. Nice suit. Bulge for the gun. Government agent.

Riley set his feet slightly apart, hands at his waist and expression neutral as the man approached. His instincts had proved correct earlier than he’d anticipated. Coming so soon on the heels of the bizarre summons from Watson, this could mean only one thing. Whatever this guy wanted had something to do with Rose the Maneater and her art collector boyfriend.

“Ted Barker, FBI.” The man flashed a government credential from his wallet. “And you are Riley Anderson, private investigator, ex-Marine Force Recon, half of Gemini.”

“Yes.” Riley met the man’s eyes impassively, surprised to see what looked like a trace of admiration and respect in the FBI regulation sneer. “What can I do for you?”

“We’d like to talk to you.” Ted Barker, FBI, put away his ID and gestured to the black Lincoln Towne Car across the street. “We think you can help us.”

“WOW.” MELISSA ROGERS widened her eyes and leaned forward on the living room sofa in her Cambridge apartment, over the bowl of popcorn clutched in her lap. “Oh, wow.”

On her television screen, halfway through the movie 9 1/2 Weeks, a blindfolded Kim Basinger lay on her back in an open white shirt and white bikini panties, cigarette smoke swirling behind her in the blue-white light of a desk lamp. Mickey Rourke, smirking in devilish black, fished an ice cube out of his drink and held it for a camera close-up. Cold wet drips fell into Kim’s mouth, trickled between her lips, down her breasts, hardened her nipples, rolled into her navel.

“Oh, oh, wow. Look at how he…oh, wow.”

Her friend Penny grabbed a handful of popcorn from her own bowl and turned to Melissa in irritation. “Will you stop with the ‘Oh wow’ and let me watch the movie? You’re ruining it.”

Melissa forced her mouth shut, except when it needed to admit another influx of popcorn. And except when Kim was sitting on the floor in Mickey’s kitchen, eyes closed while he fed her—strawberries, cherries, olives, champagne—then squirted honey on her outstretched tongue, and onto her chin, and knees, and legs; used his hands to spread the sticky golden fluid around her thighs, around and in, and up, and higher….

Melissa opened her mouth and formed the words silently. Oh, wow.

The movie spun on, ended; credits rolled up the screen. A strange, almost angry longing charged through Melissa’s body. She smacked her fist on her sensible dark beige, Scotchgarded couch. “Why can’t something like that happen to me?”

“What.” Penny screwed up her face incredulously. “You want to meet a controlling, sadistic psycho who almost ruins your life?”

“No, no, no.” Melissa pushed the popcorn off her lap and stretched her bare feet rigidly out in front of her, trying to calm the emotional need for physical action. “I mean I want that kind of excitement, that danger. I want to be swept away by passion, even if it’s not sensible. Maybe especially because it isn’t sensible.”

“You and the entire population since man walked upright. Get real, Melissa. It don’t happen. By the time you get to sex, you and Mr. Whoever know too much about each other. There’s always baggage, always a power play, or at the very least you start worrying that your thighs feel too squishy, your arm is in the way or you’re taking too long to come and he’ll get impatient.” She pushed her oblong wire rims higher up on her nose. “Swept away by passion is for the movies. Trust me.”

“What about sex with a guy you don’t know? Someone you don’t have baggage with yet?” Melissa blurted the words out, shocked she’d admit considering such a thing, even to her best friend. Some hungry demon had recently invaded her personality and begun gobbling up her common sense.

“Huh? You want to risk messing sheets with a guy who turns out to be Mr. Diseased Serial-Killer?”

“Okay, look. I want a deep, meaningful relationship as much as anyone else. I want to get married someday, and I know the kind of guy that can make me happy. But marriage is like life was for the five years I dated Bill. Comfortable intimacy, predictable dates, same old fights about the same old issues.” Melissa gestured in the air and let her hand flop disgustedly into her lap. “I understand that. I don’t expect it to be a rest-of-my-life thrill. But I’m not married now. I want something different, a totally shallow and exciting and fabulous adventure with someone I know is completely wrong for me.”

Penny snapped her wide-open mouth shut. “Since when have you been Ms. Hot-to-Trot?”

Melissa sat up and curled her legs under her. “I don’t know. I’m tired of being sensible and dependable and predictable. I want to try being someone else for a change.”

Penny rolled her eyes. “Who, Mata Hari?”

“Why not?” Melissa stretched her arms over her head and grinned. “After all those years with Bill, and then the months of misery after he dumped me, I feel alive. Like I’ve been asleep all my life and I’m just waking up.”

Penny peered over the tops of her glasses, brows raised. “Today is the first day of the rest of your life?”

Melissa grabbed a handful of popcorn and lobbed it at her friend. “Many thanks for taking my late-twenties crisis so seriously.”

“Aw, hon, you know I care. I just think sex is not any kind of a cure for what ails you.”

“Then what is?”

“Love.” Penny nodded emphatically. “You need to fall in love.”

“Oh, please. I was in love with Bill. Look where that got me.”

“Ha! Bill was a habit, not love. Give yourself some time. Look around. Ask your friends. Not me, though. If I knew an adorable, single, straight guy I wouldn’t let you near him.” Penny heaved her well-padded self up to her full five-foot-two-inch height, shook off the popcorn in a gentle rain onto Melissa’s hardwood floor and scooped it back into her empty bowl. “Me, I must go. I have to be at the museum shop early tomorrow. We’re expecting a huge shipment of mini Thinker statues for the Rodin exhibit.”

Melissa saw her friend to the door and waved goodbye, then lingered in the hallway, listening to the giggles and booming laughter coming from the apartment across the hall. Rose must have brought her date home tonight. The woman never stopped.

Again that strange, wild yearning slammed into Melissa. Sort of a combination of lust, fury and panic. Like she’d been trapped in a tiny elevator with John Cusack and didn’t know whether to jump him, force back the doors with Superwoman strength or freak from claustrophobia.

The door to Rose’s apartment opened. Melissa stepped back and guiltily gave in to her voyeuristic mood by closing her door most of the way and gluing her eye to the crack.

A dark-skinned, tuxedoed man, probably once gorgeous, now handsome in a balding, middle-aged kind of way, emerged, pulling a laughing young woman behind him. Melissa’s eyes stretched wide. Rose looked like something out of a 1940s movie tonight. Her hair, undoubtedly a wig, fell carefully around her face in dark waves. She wore an unusually modest, rose-colored gown that showed off her fair skin, nipped in her already tiny waist and flowed down to a stunning floor-length skirt. Tonight, instead of the sultry pout she’d had on for her last date she glowed with girlish enthusiasm.

Every time a different man. Every time a new look.

Melissa’s body contracted with fierce longing. She wanted that. That ability to try out a new personality, to let loose, experiment, play. Just for a month or two. More than that and she’d get sick of it, for sure. But two months of wild, nonstop partying and blow-me-away passion would be fine.

The man swept Rose into an embrace and pushed her back against the wall, kissed her mouth, face and hands, and then ruined the entire mood by making a doggy growling noise deep in his throat. Melissa made a gagging face and closed the door noiselessly on Rose’s pretend-outrage squeal of “Oh, Your Majesty.”

Ix-nay on the oggies-day. Melissa didn’t need a “Your Majesty,” either. She wasn’t that picky, by any means. Just a nice parade of your garden-variety perfect studs who could go all night.

She slumped back onto her couch. Who was she kidding? A different man every night? Ick. But one would be great. One no-strings man who set her clock ticking, with whom she could explore things Bill had never shown her. One man who would do a damn sight more than climb on top of her, produce a lot of noise and sweat, then roll off, mumble an endearment or two and start snoring. Maybe someone tremendously talented with ice cubes and honey.

She looked down at her bare feet, ratty shorts and Toy Story T-shirt and pushed back her straight, bobbed hair self-consciously. Yeah, right. She was sex goddess material for sure. Men would throng to her door the minute she announced herself available. An entire squadron of supergeeks, fresh from their Star Trek convention. A brood of wholesome innocents brought up lusting after Mary Ann on Gilligan’s Island instead of Ginger.

Hardly the beefcake she had in mind. But the really amazing guys never gave her a second glance. She was always the cute little sister they never had. Aw…

Melissa sneered and threw a newly recovered brown couch pillow across the room. Fine. She’d been toying with the idea of a makeover for years, but Bill always insisted she’d look fake.

Well, tough. Bill was history. The time was right. If Rose could reinvent herself, so could Melissa. Not for nothing was she assistant director of marketing at the Museum of Fine Arts. Her job was to make things sexy that people might not think were sexy otherwise. If she could make ‘em line up around the block for a glimpse of shards from an ancient Egyptian cooking pot, she could make herself over into the kind of woman someone other than Elmer Fudd would find attractive. Right?

Right.

She grabbed the July issue of Cosmo off her coffee table and leafed through, noting the styles and attitudes of the models. Where to begin? If she was going to go on a rampage, even if she ended up doing so only mentally—an attitude change if not a real sexual odyssey—then she’d have to make sure she got a style she could live with. She stopped and stabbed her finger on the picture of a sleek pouty model with a cap of dark hair. Her all-black, figure-hugging outfit made her look casual, elegant, sexy and innocent all at once, exactly what Melissa wanted.

She shut the magazine and hugged it to her chest. The works. The whole shebang. The New Her. To celebrate her final thrilling freedom from loving Bill. To celebrate the need to explore that strange dark desire that had been thrashing around inside her for the past few weeks. To celebrate the birth of her female power and the chance to bring it to its fullest, most independent potential.

Now just one problem. Where was she going to find the man? The one who’d do all this investigating with her? Help explore the depth of her femininity? Help her overcome any and all inhibitions and take her places she’d never— “Oh, yes, Your Majesty!” Rose’s voice carried clearly from the corridor right into Melissa’s fantasy.

Melissa smiled. Right on cue, not that she would have taken long to think of Rose. What more could she ask for? The new Melissa was a done deal. She had the desire, the means—and the perfect mentor right across the hall.

2

MICHAEL SLATER TOOK a deep breath of the sea breeze wafting through the screened-in porch of his parents’ summer house in Howarth, Maine. Below him, sparkling through the evergreen branches and birch trunks, spread Fischer Bay, dotted with islands glowing green in the early sun. The still-chilly morning air, spiced with the scent of pine and the sea, flowed over him with a cleansing freshness that went a long way toward instilling peace in his always-restless soul. The place definitely got under your skin, into your blood.

He took a few steps toward the south edge of the porch, running his hand along the screen, wet from last night’s rain, causing a shower of drops to fall on his bare forearm. During the year he’d spent nursing his mother, he’d begun to appreciate solitude, something he’d never thought would happen after thirty-three years jammed with people.

But not this much solitude.

He clenched his fist; muscles contracted in his forearm, rolling away the drops of water collected from the screen. Since his energies had stopped being focused on keeping his mother alive, keeping her comfortable, he’d started wanting someone around. Maybe Riley would want to visit. He missed Riley. Maybe a woman. He damn well missed women. He could see a woman here, in this idyllic place, moving around the house, reading on the porch or sitting on the rocky shore watching the water.

He laughed; the sound startled a hummingbird hovering at a nearby tree. Maybe he should pack up and go back to Boston, back to telephones and electricity and cynical city dwellers before he turned into a total sap.

Sounds that had grown unfamiliar broke the tranquil morning behind him in the woods. A rough engine, a truck or a van, crunching stones on the dirt road, pinging them out of the way of its wheels. Slate swung around, staring apprehensively through the house toward the front entrance. Who the hell would be coming at this time of morning?

The bell rang twice, impatiently. He went to the door, grimacing at the intrusion into his day.

A pimply, long-haired kid moved his head in rhythm to whatever horrible music was blaring through his headphones directly into his eardrums. “Telegram. Sign here, please.”

Slate quelled a flash of alarm, signed the form and took the telegram into the house, breathing in relief when the noise of the van engine faded away. He went back out onto the porch and opened the envelope slowly, carefully. Then stared, adrenaline making his body taut.

Just one word: Gemini.

MELISSA SAT ON THE EDGE of her bed in unfamiliar tight black pants, an olive-green tank top and chunky shoes, staring at the Brand-New Her in the mirror. Her straight bob had given way to a short cut that outlined the shape of her face and head and made her eyes look enormous. And lo and behold, freed from the weight of its former length, her hair had actually managed to wave slightly, though it did better on humid days.

After the haircut—miraculously, she’d gotten the appointment two days after she decided on her new look—she’d gone on to take a free makeup lesson at a department store counter, and emerged looking like some Bride of Dracula who had never seen the sun. Pale powdery skin, dark lips, orangey blush in places she never blushed. Layers of eye shadow in progressively lighter shades, which was supposed to make her eyes look “natural,” but which changed their shape so that she scarcely recognized herself… It had been a horror.

So she and Penny had invaded the makeup aisle at Walgreen’s and spent an extended evening with Cosmo as their guide, trying to see if their fresh-faced farm-girl features could be coaxed into exotic sensual splendor.

Okay, well, they got close enough.

Then there was the manicure, and the pedicure, and the rather painful waxing, which did leave her legs fabulously smooth after the welts died down.

Melissa smiled at herself in the dark-framed mirror on her dresser. She did look different. Older. More sophisticated. Better. Up until now, it had been easy—a fun week. But now it was going to get harder, and scary. Now she was going to go over to Rose’s apartment and ask how to meet a man she could have a wild, meaningless fling with. It was like the research was all finished, and now she had to sit down and write the term paper.

She curled her lip. So far she’d made it to the side of her bed closest to the door. The next step would be walking out into her living room. From there, it was a matter of, say, fifteen feet to the front door. Six more to cross the hall. Then the knocking, the waiting, the small talk, and finally, Getting to the Point.

She shook her head in a quick shudder of denial. Insurmountable. She couldn’t do it. Or maybe she could. But maybe tomorrow would be a better—

The phone rang next to her bed. She reached over her ivory bedspread and picked it up eagerly, hoping it was Penny, who would convince her tomorrow was a much better option. Or maybe one of her college roommates, who would talk to her until it was too close to dinner to go over there, or maybe—

“Melissa, it’s Bill.”

“Bill.” Her way-over-him heart gave a traitorous flip. Was this a sign? A sign she was barking up the wrong tree entirely? “How…how are you doing?”

“I’m fine. Fine.” He was distracted, uneasy. He had something to say. She knew without seeing him that he was puckering his mouth and drumming his fingers impossibly fast on whatever surface he was near. “How are you doing?”

“I’m great…. What’s up?” Did he miss her? Did he want to see her? Did he want to get back together?

Forget it. Ha! She’d just tell him—

“I wanted to tell you…” He gave an exasperated sigh. “Maybe this was a stupid mistake. But I thought you should know.”

“Yes?” That I’ve been dreaming of you every night, Melissa. That I miss you more than I can say.

Oh? Sorry, Bill. Life without you is just peachy. In fact, I’m about to—

“I met someone. I’m seeing someone. I…wanted you to hear it from me.”

Melissa clenched her teeth in a huge happy smile and pasted her eyes open extra super-by-gosh wide. “Oh! Bill that’s fabulous! I’m really happy for you. And thanks for telling me. That was so sweet of you!”

“Oh, man, I’m so glad you’re not upset. She’s pretty terrific.” He gave a gooey chuckle. “Hey! Maybe you could come over sometime and meet—”

“Bill, thanks so much for calling. Great to hear from you. Gotta go. Bye.”

Melissa hung up the phone, clenched her fists at her sides and punished her cool gray carpet with angry strides to the mirror, chest heaving from rage and hurt and humiliation and whatever else she could possibly be feeling. What bizarre, illogical trait made her want Bill to still want her just so she could have the luxury of disappointing him? So she could sit on her satin pillow, bejeweled and perfumed, smile indulgently and wave her silk hanky to the guards to drag him off to her castle’s Rejected Males Room?

The minute he’d made it clear he didn’t want her, her castle had turned into a scummy pond, and she was a princess reverting to frogdom, crouching on a cold slimy lily pad, lonely and hurt.

Well, to hell with him.

She turned abruptly and stalked through her apartment, swiped her keys off the hall table, banged through her door, took four furious steps down the corridor and knocked on Rose’s door before she could weaken even slightly and change her mind.

“Who…who is it?”

Melissa frowned. Had she knocked that hard? Rose sounded like she expected the entire Boston Police Force brandishing large weapons.

“It’s Melissa. Can I talk to you?”

The door opened and Rose appeared, looking wan and uneasy and about five years younger than she had that night with the Saudi prince last week. She wore bright blue capris, and an oversize white shirt that probably used to belong to one of her male admirers.

“Sure. Sure.” Rose smiled and beckoned. “Come on in. You look different. Did you change your hair? I like it. It looks kind of like mine.”

Melissa nodded and touched her short hair self-consciously, unwilling to admit she’d had Rose’s sleek, natural style in mind. Not that you saw much of Rose’s hair since it was usually hiding under wigs.

“Would you like a cup of tea? I’m just making some.”

Melissa nodded again and wandered among Rose’s whimsical, colorful assortment of rugs, chairs and knickknacks, wondering what the etiquette was for asking someone she barely knew to recommend a sex partner. She picked up a hand mirror with the beautiful, delicate face of a girl painted on the back, and replaced it carefully on the cluttered coffee table.

“Lovely day.” Rose smiled graciously. “I’m going to a Red Sox game tonight. Looks like we’ll have good weather.”

Come on, Melissa, spare her the small talk and get to the point. Melissa stopped opposite a bizarre giraffelike statue made out of tin cans wired together. “Oh, you have a Randstetler sculpture!”

“Is that what it is?” Rose rescued the shrieking kettle from its distress and poured boiling water into two cups. “A friend gave it to me. I can’t say I love it.”

“Your friend is very smart. Randstetler is starting to make a name for himself. His works will probably skyrocket in price. Strange guy, really into animal rights and kind of preachy about it. He works it into every subject.” Melissa gently touched the giraffe’s aluminum nose. Okay. Enough prattle. Out with it. “Listen, Rose. I wonder if I could ask you sort of a strange favor.”

Rose laughed, a nice warm sound not at all like the silly giggle she’d been making in the hall with His Majesty. “I specialize in granting strange favors. And I was thinking of asking you for one, too. You first, though. Have a seat and ask away.”

Melissa flopped into an overstuffed burgundy chair with a white lace antimacassar spread across the top. “I broke up with a guy a few months ago… Well, he broke up with me.”

“Ugh.” Rose wrinkled her nose, handed Melissa her tea and sank into a chair opposite. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine. I’m fine now.” Melissa set her mug carefully on a flowery coaster. “In fact, I’m ready to date again.”

“Good for you.”

“But I was wondering…well, the truth is, Bill and I…we didn’t have the greatest sex life.”

“Double ugh.” Rose grimaced. “You’re well rid of him.”

“But before I start looking seriously… Since you seem to know so many guys, I was wondering…if you knew anyone I could have a fling with.” Melissa covered her face with her hands. “Oh, man. If you knew how hard that was to come out with…”

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Rose laughed again. “I think it’s a great idea. Everyone should have a wild romance or two.”

Melissa dropped her hands. “Is that what you’re doing?”

“Sort of.” The friendly warmth in Rose’s face dimmed. She took a sip of tea and brightened again. “Well, I’m happy to help. I do seem to know a lot of men.”

“Oh, thank you.” Melissa practically gasped out her relief. “I was so afraid you’d be offended.”

Rose shook her head. “Nonsense. I admire you. I bet a lot of women want what you do, but don’t have the courage to go after it.”

“I don’t feel courageous.”

Rose shrugged. “What do they say in all the war movies? Courage is about acting brave when you’re not feeling it.”

“Thanks.” Melissa grinned. For all her artifice around men, Rose was amazingly genuine.

“So, are you talking nice sweet gentle teacher? Or fulfilling your every fantasy with Mr. Studmuffins?”

“Mostly the latter.” Melissa blushed, feeling as if she were discussing an order of meat at the supermarket. “I don’t want to settle down until I’ve experienced some more of what everyone makes such a fuss about.”

Rose smiled, a rueful Mona Lisa half smile. “You don’t think a husband can give that to you?”

“Not what I’m after.” Melissa swallowed some tea and shook her head emphatically. “Husbands come with the whole truckload of Having a Relationship. I want it free of the cargo this time, so I can try out being someone different, just for a while.”

“I see.” Rose put her tea down slowly. “Well, I’m hardly the one to talk you out of it. You’re sure this is what you want? I mean, most women find it hard to…be intimate without falling in love.”

“But you don’t.”

“No.” Again the rueful smile. “I don’t.”

“Well, I won’t know for sure until I try, but if I’m acting out a personality that isn’t really me, and he’s not the kind of average nice guy I usually go for, then I don’t think the risk of real love is high.” Melissa shrugged, stilling her hands, which had been twisting in her lap. “And if I get hurt, it’s my fault. I asked for it.”

“True.” Rose sat quietly for a moment, then slapped her thigh. “So. If you’re sure, I know I can help you.”

“Oh. Wow. That’s great.” Melissa forced a smile, suddenly on the verge of panicking. What the hell did she expect? She was here because she knew Rose could help her.

Rose stood and went over to the window, glanced out rather anxiously, then perched on the sill. “I wonder if I could ask you a favor, too.”

“Sure, of course.”

“I need a place to…get away from it all for a while. I don’t have much money, and I thought maybe if your family’s condo in the Berkshires was free, you could…rent it to me cheap in exchange for Tom?”

Tom. The name shot a shiver through Melissa’s body. Oh, geez. “I…don’t see why not. My parents don’t usually go up until mid-July. But I’d have to check with them.”

“That would be great. I really need a vacation.” Rose smiled, but her hands clenched the sill beneath her. “At any rate, Tom would be perfect. He’s the friend of a friend—they may have dated briefly. Amanda can’t say enough about him—handsome, sexy, gentle. One of those guys who’s into women but not commitment. You’ll probably like him.”

“Oh. Wow. Okay.” Melissa nodded rapidly, feeling like a complete fool.

Rose headed to the phone. “And if you don’t, it’s not like you have to do anything. I’ll call Amanda for his number. Are you free tomorrow night?”

“Uh. Yes. I’m free.” Tomorrow? Was she ready for this? Tomorrow? Did she really want to? This was totally terrifying.

Rose picked up the phone and dialed, smiling at Melissa. She chatted with Amanda and got Tom’s number. Half fascinated, half freaking, Melissa gulped, feeling as if she’d run out of air and saliva at the same time. The entire twenty minutes she’d spent in Rose’s apartment had had a surreal quality. She couldn’t quite seem to grasp that this was really happening, as if the whole scene might be just another daydream.

Rose reached to dial Tom’s number, then stopped, hand in midair, and bit her lip. “Uh, Melissa…why don’t you go home and check with your parents about the condo? I’ll try Tom and let you know about tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Okay. Great.” Melissa gulped the last of her tea and beat a hasty retreat. Back in her apartment, she called her parents, hands shaking. What was she going to say? Hi, Mom, hi, Dad. I need to rent our condo to a friend in exchange for wild sex with a guy I don’t know. Would that be okay?

Her dad answered and summoned her mom to the phone. Somehow, Melissa managed to stammer out the request, brushing aside their numerous concerned questions. Yes, she was fine, just a little tired. Yes, the job was great. Yes, she was eating well. No, she didn’t miss Bill. Okay, no problem, bye.

Poor Rose. Melissa hung up the phone, disappointed. Her parents were opening the condo early this year, to celebrate their fortieth anniversary over Fourth of July weekend.

Immediately a knock sounded on the door. It was Rose, looking a little anxious. “Did they say it was okay?”

“I’m sorry. They’re using the place this weekend. They almost never go up this early. I didn’t expect it to be a problem.”

“Oh.” Rose tried to smile, but it was a ghastly effort. “Thanks for trying.”

Melissa looked at her curiously, wondering exactly what she was so eager to get away from. Maybe one of her guys had turned stalker on her. “Rose, are you—”

“I spoke to Tom.” Rose broke in nervously, as if she knew what the question would be. “You’re all set.”

“Oh?” Melissa’s voice yodeled on the one syllable. This was it. Another step along the way; another part of the transition into the woman she hoped to explore.

Help.

“Eight o’clock, tomorrow night. My place.” Rose cracked a brittle smile, not quite meeting Melissa’s eyes. “He said it’ll be his pleasure.”

“I HAVE A DATE TOMORROW?” Riley stopped, one foot-long sub sandwich in each hand, and curled his lip at his grinning friend. “I was going to take Leo to the movies so my sister could have an evening to herself.”

“I know little Leo needs a man in his life, but so, apparently, does the fair Miss Rose. You get to be some guy named Tom.” Slate leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows suggestively, obviously relishing being back in the trenches. “She wants sex lessons.”

“Sex lessons? You have got to be kidding.” Riley grabbed plates from his cabinet and plunked the sandwiches down, feeling as if he’d eaten something rotten. This Rose person was bad news. “Why the hell would a woman like that need lessons?”

Slate shrugged. “I guess even professionals like to keep in shape, though according to the Feds she’s not actually a hooker.”

“Just your friendly neighborhood hedonist. Not a hell of a lot of difference if you ask me.” Riley banged the plates on the Shaker-style table he’d made in his basement workshop, his stomach churning. Sex lessons. Of all the stupid games…with something that should be so natural. “Are you sure you heard right? It wasn’t Tom that needed the lessons from her?”

“I’m sure. I’m guessing playing teacher floats Tommy’s salami.” Slate took a huge bite of his sub and chewed; his boyish blue eyes crinkled mischievously. “Some guys are into that stuff.”

“Oh, man.” Riley took a swig of milk and pushed his plate away. “They didn’t train me for this in the marines.”

“You’d rather penetrate Iraqi lines than the fair Ms. Rose?”

Riley glared at him. “Forget lessons. I’ll show up as the plumber.”

“And investigate her pipes?” Slate blinked innocently as Riley rolled his eyes in disgust. “This is the perfect setup, Riley. If you can’t find the portrait the good senator ditched with her on the first go-around, you have a good excuse to go back—provided you can find something to teach her.”

Riley dropped his head in his hands and groaned. He’d have to call Karen and reschedule the time with Leo. Slate was making too much sense. The FBI had backed Captain Watson’s insistence that Riley develop a friendship with Rose so he could search the apartment and find out what she knew.

Unfortunately, any searching while she was gone would attract undesired attention to the Feds’ involvement in the case. Her place was being watched by the cops and Jake Allston, the crime boss who’d originally bribed Senator Mason with the portrait, and who wanted to keep it out of the hands of the police so it wouldn’t become crucial evidence in a trial against him.

Riley raised his head and sighed wearily. “Rose doesn’t know this guy?”

“Nope. They’ve never met. But her reputation must have preceded her. The guy was drooling all over the phone. You should have heard her work him. Man! She was something.” Slate put his sandwich down and crossed his arms over his chest, hands in his armpits—his characteristic gesture when something unsettled him. “Funny thing, though, I got the feeling that underneath, she’s scared to death. I’m betting Miss Rose is in this way over her head.”

Something in Slate’s voice snapped Riley out of his self-pity. He stared at his friend. “Oh? Why don’t you take this one, Slate? You’ve been in Maine for a long time. You must have gotten pretty lonely.”

Slate held up his hands in surrender. “Not me. You’re the one Captain Watson asked to do the job. The Feds want the police kept happy while they check out who’s leaking information to Allston’s men. Besides, you’re the international sexpert around here, if our time overseas was anything to go by.” He made a face and jerked his thumb to his chest. “I was the sucker with the girl back home.”

Riley nodded, shoving back the sympathy he knew his friend hated. Slate had been faithful in the face of endless temptation. Unfortunately, his girlfriend hadn’t seen fit to return the favor. Not surprisingly, Slate had taken it hard. His mother’s death over the past long year hadn’t helped. When he’d showed up on Riley’s doorstep the day before, thin and down, Riley had been shocked. Today was the first sign of the return of his humor and sense of fun—the perfect cover for the brilliant, ruthless operator he was. Riley had done well inviting him to be in on this case. The FBI wasn’t known for granting favors, but they’d let Slate in with a surprising lack of protest. Apparently Gemini’s reputation extended beyond the military.

“And I’ve got a hot date, too, with the real Tom.” Slate grinned around a mouthful of cold cuts. “To make sure he has lots and lots of other plans until this operation is over.”

“And then?”

“Then I get to kick back and be available. I might be useful, since I’m invisible as far as the cops are concerned.”

“And as far as Jake Allston’s people are concerned.” Riley resignedly pulled his plate closer and started on his sandwich. Unfortunately, he had to admit he was the right man for the job. The stolen miniature of Queen Elizabeth was the crucial link needed to prove Senator Mason’s involvement in Jake Allston’s corrupt empire. Allston had used it to bribe the art-loving senator in return for legislation favoring Allston’s business interests. With the portrait, the Feds could grant Mason immunity from prosecution in exchange for his testimony against Allston. Since Riley had been invited in by the police, his involvement would create a buffer zone between the Feds and the cops while the Feds investigated the leak in the force. All the pieces fit. Everyone was happy. Except Riley.

He felt as if he’d been assigned to seduce a viper. Not that Rose would need much seducing, unless she and Tom did have some master-slave thing to act out. In that case, he’d have to pretend to seduce her, while they both knew the entire scene was a bunch of crap. He swallowed a bite; the bread tasted like glue in his dry mouth.

Sex between a man and a woman was supposed to flow, to evolve naturally out of mutual desires and tastes. It wasn’t something you should have to program or teach. Experimenting was all very well; he’d done his share. But how much better to lie together and simply savor what all humans were born to do.

He washed down the glue with a swallow of milk. He’d have to try damn hard either to find the portrait right away, since Captain Watson and the Feds seemed so certain it was in Rose’s apartment, or be absolutely, one-hundred-percent sure it was somewhere else.

ROSE CRAMMED FIVE PAIRS of underwear, two bras, three T-shirts, two pairs of shorts, two mini-sundresses, deodorant, shampoo and a toothbrush into the largest purse she owned, her movements jerky and hurried. She wasn’t sure where she was going yet. Once she got to South Station she could decide. Her budget would only allow travel by train, but she couldn’t pass up this opportunity to leave.

Melissa would be in her apartment in an hour; anyone keeping an eye on the place would see a slender young woman entertaining a man. Nothing so unusual about that. Rose had been careful on the phone, with Melissa out of the room, to make it seem as if Tom would be meeting her tonight, in case her phone was being tapped. He’d sounded so eager and had accepted the “teacher” role so readily, she felt horrible leaving Melissa to face him. But they’d work it out. Or not. Either way, by the time whoever wanted her—or whatever he thought she had—found out she was missing, Rose would be long gone.

If things didn’t work out with Tom, Melissa would go back to her own apartment and her own life, and only wonder once in a while where her neighbor had gone. If things did work out, no doubt she and Tom would use Melissa’s own apartment after tonight. Melissa would be in no danger—of that Rose felt sure, or she wouldn’t be doing this.

She’d considered slipping a note under Melissa’s door, explaining the switch, but after seeing the horror of nerves on Melissa’s face when Rose announced that the date had been set, she knew her neighbor wouldn’t show if she thought Tom expected Rose herself. And Rose really needed Melissa to be in the apartment tonight. Just tonight. So she’d have a chance to escape.

She slung the bulging bag over her shoulder, hoping it wouldn’t be obvious that it contained more than the usual purse items. After one last look in the mirror to adjust her blond wig, check her makeup, fasten a sweater over her bare shoulders and flowered sundress, Rose let herself out of the apartment and slid her key under Melissa’s door as planned. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, she took the stairs down three floors to the basement and slipped out the back entrance.

On the way to the Harvard Square T stop, and on the ride from Cambridge to Boston, she channeled her nervous energy into looking happy and carefree—a woman out on a shopping spree, planning to return home tonight for a romantic assignation with Tall Dark and Handsome. She got off at South Station, checking as casually as she could for anyone else leaving the train who might seem unduly interested in her and where she was going.

Then she hurried up the escalator and lunged toward the turnstile, at the exact same moment as a distinctly male body wearing a T-shirt and jeans.

“Sorry. After you.” The distinctly male body stepped back and gestured her through. She turned, looked up and met a pair of dynamite blue eyes under short, military-style blond hair. Eyes brimming with boyish humor, intelligence, warmth and a touch of something grim and steely that even in Rose’s near-frantic state fascinated her.

She smiled her thanks and pushed through the turnstile ahead of him, wishing it was some other day and that she was, in fact, on the mindless, infinitely cancelable errand she wanted everyone to think she was on. Then she could take time to delve into those eyes and what lay behind them. It had been awhile since she’d gotten to know someone close to her age.

“I’m Mike. Slater. Friends call me Slate. What’s your name?” He fell into step beside her, fanning the spark of her regret into a painful ember.

“I’m Rose. Just Rose. Friends call me Rose.” She sent him an I’m-only-teasing smile so he wouldn’t think she was making fun of him. Guys hated being made fun of. Their egos couldn’t stand it. Though this one seemed so natural and boy-next-door in spite of his incredible sex appeal, he might not have minded.

“Where you headed?”

“Train station.” Her smile grew wary. Even a natural, heavenly built boy-next-door could be a threat. Someone out to make sure she disappeared, one way or the other. Or someone trying to keep her from leaving.

Rose clenched her teeth. She hated this. Hated not being able to trust anyone. Hated that everything and everyone might be something other than they seemed. That this nice-looking guy might be about to drag her out to some deserted lot and threaten to shoot her for whatever he thought she’d done, or whatever he thought she had.

The sooner she was out of Boston, the better. Even by talking to this guy, even if he was innocent, she’d already attracted someone’s attention. Someone who could answer questions about her if he bumped into people who wanted to know. As much as she wanted to linger and listen and look, she had to get rid of him.

“What time’s your train?”

“I’m not…it’s not for a while.” Only a few dozen yards into the crowded main room of the station she’d be able to see the departure schedule and take her pick of time and destination. Why couldn’t he have waited to ask until then, so it wouldn’t be so obvious she had no idea where she was going?

“I’ve got a long wait, too. I’m meeting a friend. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Oh, gosh. I don’t think so, thanks.” She quickened her pace; he kept up easily.

“I just want to buy you a drink, that’s it. Juice, milk, soda, whatever…doesn’t have to be booze.”

“No, really. I’m fine.”

“I don’t mind. There are some decent places here.” He gestured toward the assortment of eateries in the station.

Rose stopped and turned to face him, struck again by the depth and complexity of the expression in his eyes. “Are you always this persistent?”

“No.” He grinned and crossed his arms, hands shoved into his armpits. “Usually I don’t even ask in the first place. So I guess I don’t want to start off a career of asking strange women out with a dismal failure.”

She couldn’t help a small smile. This guy would probably be a lot of fun. Damn the timing all to hell.

“I’m sorry. I just have to be so careful.” She bit her lip. “Everyone has to be careful these days.”

“Okay, no problem.” He held up his hands and backed away. “Nice to meet you, Rose. Have a good trip.”

He grinned once more and strode off toward the food court. She took a quick, deep breath. Stupid as it sounded, and as much as she had been anxious to shake him off, now that he was gone, she felt terribly alone.

She pulled herself together, scanned the departure board, chose a train to D.C., so she’d have the most stops to choose from, bought her ticket and a newspaper, and settled down to wait.

3

MELISSA SAT ON HER discarded-outfit littered bed, hands tucked under her thighs, knees pressed together, feet pressed together. She had a good view in the dresser mirror opposite her, so she could see firsthand what she looked like when she was panicking.

Not a pretty sight. Her eyes were huge, her face so pale that the makeup she’d put on looked like it was trying to bring her back from the dead. Her jaw was so tight her teeth were starting to ache, and when she brought her hand up to tuck her hair behind her ears, forgetting her hair wasn’t long enough to tuck anymore, her hand was shaking. In fact, her entire body was shaking.

She glanced at the clock. Seven-fifty. In ten minutes she’d go across the hall and do some shaking there. Seeing as guys were always late, at eight-fifteen this Tom person would waltz in. He’d be overly handsome, with tufts of chest hair that poked all the way up to his Adam’s apple. He’d have several gold necklaces glinting through the unbuttoned opening of his rayon shirt, and he’d make that horrible gun with his fingers and pretend to shoot her in greeting. Which was a damn strange way to be charming, now that she thought about it.

No way. She couldn’t do this. She was not a sex goddess. She belonged with someone dependable and a little dull, someone like Bill. She should be married, cheerfully and gracefully pregnant, glowing with peace and good health, helping her husband make their bed in the morning.

She shuddered. Ick. Not yet. Not until she was thirty, anyway. She needed this time to explore, this last chance in her life to check out the wild side. Each of her relationships had lasted longer than the previous one, and she had a feeling Mr. Right would show up soon. So what was wrong with something before then? A little stopgap? Better to screw around now than do it after she was married. Or wonder the rest of her life what a fling would feel like. Right? Right.

She glanced at the clock again. A little sideways flirt of a glance, so that maybe if she took only the tiniest look, time would slow down a little, or maybe stop, and she wouldn’t ever have to go in there and meet him.

Tom would hook his jacket over one finger on his shoulder and wink at her as if she was a cute child. He’d be too huge and musclebound, the kind of guy who’d have to turn sideways to fit through the door, and who’d have no spit at all and kiss her with a dry mouth that he used special lip weights to keep young and firm. The kind of guy who called women he was trying to impress “kid” or “babe.”

Ick.

No way. She couldn’t do this. What were the odds that he would be attractive to her? How many men did she pass in the street, and how many of them were? Really attractive? Enough to want to touch? Hardly any.

So Rose thought he was sexy. Rose dated men old enough to be her father, who had paunches and horrible taste in clothes and probably bad breath and erectile dysfunction.

What the hell am I doing?

The traitorous clock now said 7:58. Melissa took a shaky breath and moved her shaky body over to the dresser. She picked up the key with her shaky hand, her shaky brain still not sure if she was actually going to use the key. But she had to. She couldn’t stand him up. She couldn’t bear the curiosity for the rest of her life if she never even got a peek at him. And she wasn’t going to stoop to peering through the doorway and only coming out if he was cute.

For one thing, she didn’t want him to know she even lived in this building until she decided whether he was someone she’d like to…get to know.

She opened her door and raced across to Rose’s apartment, managed to fit the key into the lock and went inside, trying to take deep breaths into lungs that had developed some kind of weird stuttering problem. She would have loved a small drink—say, a fifth or so of Scotch—but she didn’t drink that much, and wouldn’t want him to smell it on her if he got close enough to.

Oh, God. What was she doing? What if he was totally wonderful? How could she stop herself from falling in love with him? What made her think she was emotionally equipped for intimacy without feeling?

She went over to the window and opened it, thankful for the cool night air that flowed into Rose’s apartment. If it was humid and oppressive, she’d probably pass out. She looked down into the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of the guy so she could at least get a preview.

No studs. All she saw was that parked TV repair truck, which must belong to someone who had recently moved onto their street.

The knock on the door was perfect. Not loud and insistent. Not timid. Not silly and overly rhythmic. Confident, firm-knuckled, let me in.

Oh, help. Let him in.

She took a huge deep breath, which her lungs suddenly allowed her to have, and went to open the door.

He was perfect.

He was so perfect she wanted to laugh. He was so perfect she wanted to cry. He was so perfect she just stood there and stared and thought about how perfect he was until it occurred to her she was being totally ridiculous.

“Hi, Tom. Come in.”

He nodded. Even his nod was perfect. Up and down of his head, with his firm jaw starting it and his high forehead following. Dark, dark hair, slightly wavy and thick, dynamite brown eyes surprisingly light in color, long lashes, nice mouth, a sexy groove running down one cheek.

She moved back into Rose’s overdecorated apartment and gestured him in, then closed the door and watched as he walked into the room and looked around.

Perfect. Tall, not too tall; built, not too built. Jacket and tie, respectable, well-groomed. Perfect.

And the most perfect thing of all was that he was so perfect, there wasn’t the slightest chance she’d fall in love with him. Who the hell wanted to stare at someone that perfect for the rest of her life? Talk about feeling inadequate.

He swung around and met her gaze, a faint smile deepening that groove in his right cheek. His eyes were penetrating, his expression slightly cynical, totally exciting. She found herself beaming back in breathless, idiotic, hopeful happiness. This could actually work.

“Call me Riley.” His voice was perfect, too, of course. Deep and rich, the kind of voice that went through you and curled your toes. “It’s my middle name. Only my mom and Amanda call me Tom.”

“Riley.” She nodded and stood there. He stood there, too, and she started feeling a little uneasy. He didn’t seem the type for polite small talk. And now that she thought about it, his stare was making her uncomfortable. There was something sort of speculative in it, something almost…disdainful.

Then it hit her. He didn’t find her attractive.

In a scene out of an alchemist’s nightmare, the gold excitement in her chest turned to lead misery and sank into her stomach. Of course. Mr. Perfect would want Ms. Perfect. Rose probably had told him she was Demi Moore’s double to get him to come.

“Do you want a drink, Riley?” Because she sure as hell did. “Scotch okay?”

He nodded. She moved to the tray she’d brought in earlier from her place, and poured out two stiff drinks. While she did this, Tom-now-Riley walked around the apartment, examining Rose’s clutter of knickknacks: her collection of still-life paintings, sometimes two deep on the red walls; the bowls of potpourri that made the room smell like some anonymous chemist’s idea of fresh.

Melissa crossed to him and handed him his drink. “Cheers.”

She raised her glass in salute, then drained half of it.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Thirsty?”

She smiled and laughed somewhat stupidly, which was very un-perfect of her. “Nervous.”

He nodded, which seemed to be his preferred mode of communication. That weird judgmental expression was still on his face. In spite of the fact that he was perfect, and mysterious, and sort of terrifying in a dangerous, wildly erotic way, she was also starting to find him a little annoying. If he thought what she wanted was so disgusting, why had he come? If he thought she was so disgusting, why didn’t he leave? He didn’t seem the type to worry about politeness.

“So.” She folded her arms across her chest and exhaled a short, forced breath. To hell with him. “How about those Red Sox?”

His grin was slow and surprising, spreading across his face and making grooves in both cheeks, a double in the right one. She couldn’t help smiling back. You couldn’t be in the room with a man who smiled at you that way and not smile back. Even if you sort of wanted to slug him in the gut.

“Think they’ll go all the way this year?” She opened her eyes wide and blinked repeatedly.

He actually chuckled that time. Then he took a healthy swallow of Scotch and put it down behind him on Rose’s mantel, without looking, as if he simply sensed it was there. He stood, hands on his hips pushing back his jacket, staring at her with an intimate I-know-what-we’re-going-to-be-doing-later look in his eyes.

Melissa drew in her breath. Her face turned cold and probably pale, then reheated in a flush of warmth that spread down her body and made her skin feel as if it was reaching out to be touched. Oh. My. Lord. The man could seduce a nun. Maybe he did find her the tiniest bit attractive, after all. Or maybe he’d promised Rose and felt he had to.

Whatever. Melissa wasn’t ready to get cozy yet, not until she’d figured out his strange attitude. And she had this thing about not kissing men until they’d uttered at least four complete sentences.

She backed away and gestured toward the couch with her drink, nearly spilling it in the process. “Would you like to sit down?”

He sat in the burgundy wing chair, the lace antimacassar looking idiotically feminine and out of place behind him.

Melissa gulped more of her drink, its tingly warmth adding to what she already felt from Mr. Perfect’s incredible sex appeal. Maybe if he’d actually talk she wouldn’t be so freaked out.

“Why are you nervous?”

She barely escaped choking on her Scotch. What the hell did he think? If she hadn’t seen the piercing intelligence in those eyes, she’d wonder about his brain power. “I don’t exactly do this often.”

“No.”

She snapped her head up and gaped at him. He kept his gaze level, unperturbed, slightly challenging. Something in the way he’d said “no” did what women had been fighting against for generations: it meant yes. It meant he thought she invited strange men over to explore her sexuality all the time.

“Excuse me?” She stood up, feeling slightly unsteady, beginning to be annoyed in earnest. “Would you mind lifting yourself above the four-word sentence and explaining that?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Do I need to?”

She came very, very close to flinging her drink in his lap. Instead she slammed it down on Rose’s brass table. What a total jerk. This was a major disaster. And he’d been so—

She wasn’t going to use that p word again. Not for a jerk, not even a perfect jerk.

She pointed furiously down at her shoes. “Flats, so you wouldn’t think I’m a tramp, and because I was worried you might not be tall. Knee skirt, plain navy, no sit-down wrinkles across the front—i.e., not too short, not too tight. Basic off-white top, normal makeup, plain old hair. All calculated during the last nearly sleepless twenty-four hours in an obsessive and carefully laid plan, to ensure that if you didn’t find me attractive, or if I didn’t find you attractive, the rejection would be minimal because I didn’t go all out for seduction.”

She jerked her arm straight out in front of her. “Observe the shaking hand, complete with sweaty palm. If you’d like to feel my pulse I think you’ll find it one step shy of panic level. Now. Please tell me exactly what would make you think I’ve done this before.”

His eyes narrowed, then his expression changed to contain something that seemed like admiration. He grinned that slow sexy grin which changed him from terrifying to devastating. “I apologize. You’re perfect.”

Melissa would have laughed, except he sounded like he was mocking her, and she was still furious. He thought she was perfect? “Two sentences that time. I dare you to up the count.”

He stood and took a step toward her. “I’m not much of a talker.”

The implication was there, in his eyes, in his purposeful nearness. I’m better at other things. Melissa reached down for her drink and walked toward Rose’s tiny kitchenette, unsettled to the verge of tears. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready for this man. Two minutes into their meeting he was playing mind games, and she hadn’t a clue why. Maybe he thought it was sexy. Maybe he thought making his victims want to stick pins in him would be fabulous foreplay.

It wasn’t. Not even close.

She drained her glass and poured herself another Scotch, knowing she wouldn’t be able to come close to drinking even half of it. She’d rather not exhaust her dignity by throwing up in Rose’s toilet. But it gave her something to do, something to help her escape his calculating stares and overwhelming presence. Something to help calm her while she figured out how to get the evening back on track.

“Look, Riley.” She clenched the whiskey bottle, not yet brave enough to turn around and face him. “I’m kind of a mess over this whole thing. So if you could make it a little easier on me, I’d appreciate it. I don’t know what you expected, but obviously I’m not it.”

She took a long, healing breath, glad to have all that out in the open…and held it. He’d come up behind her. Close. She could feel his warmth, could feel his eyes on her. She wished her hair was still long so the back of her neck wouldn’t feel so exposed. Her sleeveless cotton shirt had only a slightly scooped front and back, but she might as well have been wearing a bikini top, the way she felt.

“You’re better than I expected.” He drew his hands down her arms in a light, caressing touch that ended with him circling her wrists in a firm grip she had a feeling would tighten impossibly if she tried to pull away. Although his tone still hovered between compliment and insult, Melissa’s heartbeat sped up. She stood entranced, imprisoned, and somewhat shamefully aroused.

“I expected you’d be beautiful.” He said the words softly into the top of her hair. She felt as if his voice was surrounding her, heating her, making her joints go watery.

Beautiful? No way. “Pretty”—she’d been called that. “Cute” tons of times—she hated that. Beautiful?

“I expected you’d be desirable.” He drew his hands back up to her shoulders and let go lingeringly. “But I didn’t expect such…perfect innocence, for all I was warned. You’re quite a woman.”

Melissa swallowed. Warned? Rose thought Melissa was so virginal she had to warn him? “Uh, thank you? I’m not really sure what you…I mean, I’m not that innocent, but I am… I mean, it is kind of the whole point of you being here, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” He laughed without humor. “Of course.”

Melissa sidled away, putting distance between herself and this totally confusing person. She felt off balance and infuriated, and infatuated, and inebriated and pretty much anything else anyone cared to mention. This had to have been the most confusing half hour of her life. But one thing had been totally decided the minute he touched her, the minute he half whispered words into her hair. She wanted him. As soon as they got past this strange tension, she wanted him to be the one. Rose’s instincts were absolutely right on. This was a man she could stock ice cubes and honey for. But how the hell to get to that point?

Maybe if she got him away from the mind games, maybe if they got to the, uh, purpose of the evening, they could put this bizarre uncomfortable beginning behind them. She took a deep breath and crossed her fingers.

“So. How do you usually…I mean, do you want to talk first or just… Oh, forget it. I stink at this.” She put her drink down and turned in exasperation. “Can we just—”

He was right there. Somehow he’d moved while she’d been thinking and stuttering, and he was right there. She froze, whatever asinine thing she’d been about to say still dangling from the end of her tongue.

He moved forward so his body was all of a half-inch from hers, smiling down with that strange, challenging, know-it-all smile that made her want to slug him and kiss him at the same time. He dipped his head slightly toward her, still holding her eyes with his penetrating brown gaze. “You first.”

Melissa’s eyes widened. “What?”

His smile stretched briefly. “I said, you first.”

“But…you’re supposed to—” Melissa closed her eyes. Okay. So he wasn’t going to take the lead. She could kiss him. She’d done that before. She could do this. To hell with him.

She opened her eyes to find him still there, still staring, still with that smug, annoying-as-hell smirk. Her anger rose. Fine. Jackass. She lifted on tiptoes and planted a loud, closemouthed, little girl smack on his lips, complete with sound effects. “Mmm-ah.” Then she went back down on her heels, shrugged and batted her eyes with rhythmic fluttery precision. “Well, gee. That’s about the best I can do. You really have your work cut out for you, Riley.”

For a second she wasn’t sure what he would do, and it suddenly occurred to her that if he got angry, she could be a squashed bug under his fist in about ten seconds. She’d never felt physically vulnerable around a man, and it scared her.

If the sick truth be told, it fascinated her, too. And aroused her. She suddenly pictured him picking her up and taking her right here, standing in the middle of the room with her legs hooked around him, while he held her up with nothing but the strength in his shoulders.

All of which would not come to pass if he killed her now.

He didn’t. He pulled her against him and kissed her long and hard, a mean, messy kiss that left her feeling punished and violated and wanting to cry. “Is that what you wanted me to teach you?”

“No.” She turned away; he followed, grabbed her arms, lifted her up onto the kitchen table and pushed himself between her legs.

“How about this?”

“What are you doing?” She could barely gasp the words out. This was beyond horrible. Her worst nightmare. The man was a brutal, sick, macho pig and he was going to rape her, and it was partly her fault for coming up with this stupid idea in the first place. She pushed at his shoulders ineffectually, knowing she was totally powerless to keep him from doing anything he wanted. “Stop it. Stop!”

He drew back and looked at her incredulously. She didn’t move, other than to make strange uncontrollable sobbing noises without tears, breath heaving to get out of her chest.

“What the—” He narrowed his eyes and swore obscenely. “I can’t figure you out at all.”

“What do you mean? I’m the most straightforward person on the planet.” Tears spilled out of her eyes and onto her cheeks. “You’re the weird one. You come in here and start playing bizarre mind games. It’s like you hated me from the beginning. If you don’t want to be here why the hell did you come?”

He stared at her again, as if he didn’t speak her language and had no clue what she’d been trying to tell him. Then he released her and walked away, stood by the window, a big, male, solitary figure against the white lace curtains blowing in the soft evening air.

Melissa got down from the table, shaken and crying, and reached for a tissue from the lacquered box on Rose’s counter.

“How many men have you had sex with?”

She started. “What?”

He repeated the question, searching her face from across the room as if he thought her answer was the key to something mystical and life-saving.

She sank into an antique rocking chair and blew her nose loudly, not caring if she looked like Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer when she’d finished. Not caring about anything except the immense relief that he’d morphed back into the harmless sexy man he’d been when he first came in. Somehow, even in her badly shaken state, it was slowly entering her awareness that something—maybe something he’d misunderstood from his buddy Rose—had made him think badly of her. And even if it made her a spineless wimp, she desperately wanted to change his mind, to make it right, so they could start again with something approaching a normal meeting, and see if they could work things out.

“Only two. Two men. One in college—it hurt and it was horrible. Then Bill—it didn’t hurt, but it was still pretty horrible.”

“No others?”

She tossed her tissues into a wicker wastebasket, so drained and stripped emotionally that baring her sex life to a stranger seemed the most natural thing in the world. “The others were just dates. Just fun.”

He nodded, looked at her intently, as if he was making up his mind about something. Melissa could even sense the minute he changed his attitude, when his eyes and mouth softened into something strangely guilty and almost tender, and she wanted to cry again, from relief this time.

He crossed the room and crouched in front of her, his huge body compacting lightly and effortlessly. He put his hands on the outside of her thighs and looked up at her, his expression open and sincere for the first time since he’d come in.

“Tell me what you want from me, Rose.”

She almost laughed at his slip, except that she wasn’t capable of laughter at that moment. “It’s Melissa.”

He didn’t look remotely embarrassed by his mistake. “Melissa is your real name?”

“Yes.” She nearly cried again. Why couldn’t he take anything at face value?

“Okay.” He continued watching her closely. Very closely, as if she were his science experiment. “What do you want from me, Melissa?”

She took a deep breath, trying to gather her emotions into some semblance of order. “I…I want to try new things. I want to be safe, but I want an adventure. Something I can remember when I’m fifty and have been under the same guy for twenty years. Anything…except pain or humiliation. Everything but the same old missionary grind.”

“I understand.” His hands slid up her thighs to her waist; he tightened his hold into a strong, reassuring grip, brown eyes holding hers intently. “I make it a habit always to trust my instincts over my information. For some reason, tonight I didn’t. I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”

Melissa gaped, certain he didn’t make apologizing an everyday habit, and somewhat awed that he’d done it for her. “You thought I was a phony.”

He grimaced. “Something like that.”

“But why?” She practically shouted the word. What on earth had Rose told him?

“I thought you were playing a role. That this was all a game.”

“I’m not, Riley. It’s not a game, I promise.” One more tear escaped and trickled down her cheek. He watched until it slid into the corner of her mouth, then stood, lifting her to her feet, and kissed her. Only this was nothing like the kissing he’d done before. Nothing mean or messy or punishing. This kiss was sweet, gentle, languorous, tasting the tear that had fallen on her lips, taking his time getting to know the shape of her mouth, each corner; each lip tugged, tasted, explored.

She pressed herself against him, shocked to feel him hard between them. Oh, man. He wanted her. A guy like this. She could scarcely take it in. He wanted her.

He led her over to the couch, sat and pulled her down across his lap, still kissing her as if he didn’t intend to stop for the rest of the evening. She sank against him, totally carried away by the man and his mouth, and managed only a slight moan of protest when he kissed a line from her lips to her throat and back along her jaw to behind her ear. His hands came up under her skirt, over her thighs, skimmed and settled on the mound of her sex through her panties.

Arousal seared through her; she gasped and arched up instinctively for more pressure, shocked by his boldness, shocked by her own. The nerves of the last few hours, the raw fear and subsequent safety, had fueled her; she’d never been this hot, this ready in such a short time. With his warm hand against her, she was burning nearly out of control, panting like an animal. If he touched her, she’d die. If he didn’t, she’d die faster.

He pushed his hand under her panties, incredibly warm, incredibly strong, incredibly sure. She opened her legs shamelessly and shut her eyes, aware he was watching her face, but not wanting to be aware of anything except the need his touch aroused in her body. He found her wetness, slid his finger inside, then started a light regular stroking in and out, rubbing her gently with his thumb, stopping now and then to tease and dip inside her again.

Melissa lost herself. She was gone. Nowhere. Nothing existed except the unfamiliar fingers of this man’s hand on and inside her, and the sensations he was making her feel. She squirmed against the coming climax, put it off, clenched her thighs to make him slow down. She wanted to feel like this forever.

He resisted, urged her on, pushed inside with two fingers, rubbed harder until she fell apart, gave in, let the burning current wash over her, let her muscles contract helplessly around his fingers, then subside.

She opened her eyes to find him still watching her, an incredulous expression on his face, the measuring look back in his eyes.

Melissa slid off his lap and fell onto the sofa beside him, dazed and flushed with passion, suddenly aware of how crazed she’d become, and embarrassed by it. How the hell could she let a stranger bring her so completely out of herself? Nothing even approaching that had ever happened to her.

She drew her hands down her face and throat and smiled at him shyly. “That was…nice.” The word came out as the ridiculous understatement it was, which made him smile wryly. She glanced at his erection, which was making his lap a thing of beauty and astonishing magnitude. “Uh, can I…I mean, shouldn’t I…do something for you?”

“No, thanks.” He got up and adjusted himself under his pants. “I put you through a rough start tonight. I deserve to suffer.”

“I don’t mind, really. I can—”

“It’s okay.” He pulled her to her feet, brushed aside her bangs and released her. “I ought to get going.”

“Oh.” Melissa wrapped her arms around herself, shocked at his abrupt departure, then chided herself the next second. What did she expect? Affectionate nuzzling for three hours? “Okay.”

He paused at the door, one hand on the knob on his way out. “When would you like to meet again?”

“Uh…” Her mind raced. Would now be too soon? Would he think she was too desperate if she suggested tomorrow or the next day? How long could she stand waiting for another adventure with him?

“Same time tomorrow?”

Yes! “That sounds…” She cringed. “I can’t tomorrow. I have to work. Day after is fine, though.”

She cleared her husky throat, trying to act as normal as possible scheduling sex with someone she’d just been intimate with and didn’t know at all, when her insides were singing the “Star Spangled Banner” because he wanted to see her again so soon.

“Okay.” He smiled under intense, serious eyes. “Day after tomorrow. See you then.”

Melissa waved and closed the door, then turned and leaned back against it, eyes closed, mouth curved in a sappy, happy grin.

On impulse, she rushed to the window and watched until she saw him come out of the building and walk down Garden Street, confident, graceful, masculine. Until he went around the corner and disappeared.

Melissa straightened and slowly closed the window. Rose’s unfamiliar, ultrafeminine apartment felt suddenly still and close and empty behind her.

Okay, Melissa. You asked for this and you got it. No strings. Just the physical. Just what you said you wanted.

She wrapped her arms around herself, lonely and bereft and unsatisfied in spite of the most amazing orgasm she’d ever experienced. What was the matter with her? She should be springing off the walls with self-satisfied happiness. She’d passed the test. She was desirable. He’d passed the test: he was so desirable as to redefine desirable. She’d have her fling, learn everything she could, explore her wild side and build up that stockpile of sensual memories she could draw on when Mr. Right and she were bored to death of each other.

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