“I’m not hitting on you.”

Brody grinned. “Not yet, anyway.”

At the expression on his face Jillian’s body responded, warming, as automatic as a reflex.

“The point is that this job kills relationships. We’re on the road, out all night, always in a crowd, surrounded by people looking to get laid. It can get wild.”

“It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it?”

“You got it.” His eyebrows rose as if her joke had surprised him. She was coming off too serious, she realized, no doubt a strike against her.

“I don’t have a boyfriend, so that’s no problem. Neither is the travel or the hours or whatever it takes. I’ll work hard. I’ll be what you need.”

“And what do you think I need?”

There was heat in his words, something sexy and intimate that caught her short. Something that made her think of bodies entwining on twisted sheets.

“Me,” she blurted. “You need me.”

Dear Reader,

I used to be offended by men. Well, by how sexist they could be, crude and lewd and obsessed with women’s bodies over their minds. I mellowed out—what choice did I have?—and now accept, even occasionally celebrate la différence. Men are visually stimulated and can’t multitask, especially during sex, so we can’t expect to hear how pretty our eyes are during the act, right? It’s a brain thing. Who knew?

It’s also true that we all have an angle on the world. We see it through the eyes of our past, our attitudes, our family roles, our life experiences. That’s how it was for Jillian James in this story. She believed she was open to other viewpoints—crucial for a documentary filmmaker—but she learned through Brody that, well…maybe not so much.

Jillian taught Brody, aka Mr. Love ’Em and Leave ’Em Begging for More, a thing or two as well, such as how to stick around for love. They both saw the world through new eyes.

I hope their story opens your eyes a little, too. Oh, and warms your heart. Always that is my hope.

All my best,

Dawn Atkins

P.S. Please visit me at www.dawnatkins.com.

NO STOPPING NOW
Dawn Atkins

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dawn Atkins started her writing career in the second grade, crafting stories that included every single spelling word her teacher gave her. Since then, she’s expanded her vocabulary and her publishing credits. This is her twentieth published book. She won the 2005 Golden Quill Award for Best Sexy Romance and has been a Romantic Times BOOKreviews Reviewers Choice Award finalist for Best Flipside (2005) and Best Blaze (2006). She lives in Arizona with her husband, teenage son and a butterscotch-and-white cat.

Books by Dawn Atkins

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

93—FRIENDLY PERSUASION

155—VERY TRULY SEXY

176—GOING TO EXTREMES

205—SIMPLY SEX

214—TEASE ME

253—DON’T TEMPT ME

294—WITH HIS TOUCH**

306—AT HER BECK AND CALL**

318—AT HIS FINGERTIPS**

348—SWEPT AWAY†

To David, my second set of eyes

Contents

Acknowledgments

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

Acknowledgments

A million thanks for a million answers to documentary filmmakers Suzanne Johnson and Penelope Price. I’m awestruck by your skill and dedication. Any film-related errors are strictly my own.

1

ON THE MONITOR, Brody Donegan, aka Doctor Nite, slid a five under the stripper’s G-string and gave the knowing smirk that made his cable show must-see TV for every lounge lizard prowling the meat-market bars.

“I’ve got to get this guy,” Jillian James said to her cousin Nate, in whose video-editing studio they sat. “For the documentary,” she added quickly, hoping Nate hadn’t noticed the edge in her voice. She tapped the Mute button so hard she snapped a nail.

Doctor Nite, Brody Donegan’s show, featured sexy hot spots as the backdrop for advice on how to get laid and stay single. Donegan, who used women like tissues and taught his high-fiving, beer-guzzling fans to do the same, symbolized all that was wrong with a culture that exalted sex over love, external looks over inner beauty and self-involvement over emotional commitment.

Jillian had to get him.

She’d tried for weeks for an interview, but his network had stonewalled her and his agent had e-mailed that he was too busy. “For a no-name filmmaker” was implied, but Jillian got the message loud and clear.

That was where fate, through her cousin, had stepped in. Nate just happened to be good friends with Donegan’s camera guy, who just happened to be out of commission for the upcoming shoot. Nate had recommended Jillian to fill in.

“So, you have the scoop for me?” she asked Nate now.

“Brody wants to meet you tonight.” Nate handed her one of the show’s business cards, which featured the star’s face. Donegan was handsome enough if you liked the bad-boy look—square jaw…dangerous eyes…wicked grin.

Jillian could take or leave it.

“Time and place on the back,” Nate said.

She flipped the card. 11 p.m., Score was written in bold Sharpie. Score was a trendy bar in Santa Monica, she knew. “Eleven is late.”

“Doctor Nite hours,” Nate said. “Get used to it.”

“I will. You bet. Whatever it takes.” She flicked the card against her chin, her heart racing, her skin overheated, sole to scalp. This scrap of paper held the key to her future. Everything depended on this meeting. The job. Her documentary. Her career.

Well, maybe not everything, but this was big. In her pitch to the We Women Cable Network, she’d mentioned exclusive interviews with Doctor Nite, knowing that would pique the acquisitions manager’s interest. Now she had to get the damn interviews.

“So this project you want him for is about dating?” Nate asked, looking doubtful. “Doesn’t sound like you.”

“I needed a change of pace after the foster care piece,” she said. She’d devoted two years to the project, living on Top Ramen and dreams, begging favors from film school friends, selling her second camera, her extra computer and every spare piece of equipment to pay postproduction costs.

It had been her first major project since she left TV news. Her San Diego network had sponsored several small projects, all well received, but Childhood Lost took top honors at two prestigious film festivals. She’d floated on air.

Then slammed to the ground when she couldn’t find a buyer. Everyone loved it, but it was “too local” for public television and “too dark” for commercial networks who seemed to be buying only lurid exposés or feel-good pieces. Without big-buck backers, Childhood Lost sank like a stone to the bottom of the sea of lost documentaries.

How could a movie change the world if the only people who saw it were her film school profs and die-hard fans?

She’d vowed her next project would be commercial from the get-go. Drinks out with her two best friends, Becca and Dana, had given her the idea for a movie about the dark side of the player lifestyle.

Becca had just broken up with her boyfriend of two years because, at thirty-seven, he claimed to be too young to get serious. Dana had lived through a similar scenario six months before. Jillian’s own breakups had been amicable, but between the three friends, they knew a dozen other women who’d been victims of the Peter Pan syndrome—guys who refused to grow up and commit.

As they commiserated over margaritas, Doctor Nite had appeared on the bar’s plasma and guys all over the place lifted their beer and woofed approval, and the idea was born.

Soon Jillian was frantically scribbling notes on napkins for Peter Pan Prison: How Men Who Play Pay.

Bare-bones grants from a social-psychology foundation and two women’s groups had funded interviews with therapists, matchmakers and sociologists, along with women who’d dated Peter Pan boys and some longtime bachelors she’d snared outside a strip club. She’d obtained promotional footage from the Doctor Nite show, too. Now all she needed was in-depth interviews with the man himself to nail the sale to We Women.

On the screen in her cousin’s studio, Donegan was flirting with a top-heavy blonde. “I love this bit,” Nate said.

“You’re a fan of the show?”

“Are you kidding? Doctor Nite is great.” Nate was a good person with a kind heart, but he was single and twenty-eight, exactly the show’s demographic.

“You don’t think marriage is a crime against men, though, do you? You want to settle down one day?”

“If I can’t avoid it.” He grinned.

Lord, if Nate bought the Doctor Nite philosophy, lots of other decent guys did, too, which made for a terrible trend.

She studied Doctor Nite. She could see why women liked him. Even with the sound muted, she picked up his strong masculine energy. He had expressive eyes, and a smile that tugged at you, invited you in. Infectious and appealing and—

“Oh, I get it,” Nate said softly, “You’re into the guy.”

“God, no,” she said, startled to feel her face flame.

“That’s cool, JJ. Sometimes I forget you’re a woman.”

“Gee, thanks,” she said, though she took pride in being one of the guys when she worked. In high school, when being overweight had rendered her sex-neutral, it had been hell. Fat girls were friends, not girlfriends.

Now being one of the guys served her well, kept any residual sexism at bay. She went by JJ and used the androgynous J. James as her credit line, and was as far from girlie as she could be. She carried her own equipment and never shied from intimidating shoots.

“Good luck with him,” Nate said, studying her thoughtfully.

“Thanks. I’ll need it.” Getting the job was just the first step. She had to get Donegan to trust her enough to talk about his secret loneliness, the inner emptiness of his way of life.

She’d always been lucky getting honest answers to the boldest questions. She believed people responded to her bone-deep curiosity. Everyone longed to be understood, after all. Would Brody?

Watching him on the monitor, she felt a shiver of excitement. If her plan worked and she sold the movie, it would mean a big career leap. She’d have a name. Funding would fall into her lap. Not that fame or money was the point.

This piece was for Becca and Dana and all the women—and men, for that matter—crippled by the idea that just as a woman couldn’t be too thin, a man couldn’t be too single.

“You keep the DVD,” Nate said with a wink. “Enjoy.” Her cousin thought Jillian had a thing for Doctor Nite. Please. She took the DVD all the same. Research.

EVEN IF SHE HADN’T known what Brody Donegan looked like, Jillian would have known where he was by the crowd swarming his huge table in the raised central area of Score.

Designed to look like a bachelor pad from the Fifties, the club was furnished with zebra-striped chairs, low white and black leather couches, with a huge fire pit in the lounge and faux animal hides on the floor. The walls held framed nudes, the music was Sinatra and the signature drink a gin martini—shaken, not stirred. Perfect hangout for Doctor Nite.

Every seat at Donegan’s long table was filled and people crowded around it, everyone talking at once. The women jutted their breasts forward, the men laughed boldly. Like mating birds, the males showed beak and claw, the females preened and flounced, hardwired to perform this primitive dance.

Jillian understood the drive, even if she didn’t like it, and would use it to appeal to Brody. Instead of her usual jeans, chambray shirt and cargo vest, she’d worn a tailored white blouse that emphasized her tan and offered a sliver of cleavage, snug black slacks and heels high enough that her arches ached the instant she slid them on.

Why did women willingly endure this agony—not much better than ancient foot binding? Supposedly, spike heels enhanced a woman’s sexual features—lifting her butt, lengthening her legs, tilting her breasts forward. Jillian had worn them so she could meet the six-foot Brody at eye level. If they made her more attractive to him, too, they were worth the temporary pain.

Instead of the usual ponytail under a ball cap, she’d let her curls fall wild to her shoulders. Sexier that way, she figured, though she wasn’t much for the teasing hair toss.

She paused near the phone alcove to observe the scene. She liked to dip her toe into the social stream before getting swept into the current.

Donegan was clearly amusing the crowd, but she noticed that whenever someone addressed him, he made eye contact and turned his body toward them, giving full attention to the person. The man knew how to work a crowd, no question.

Jillian was prepared to be charmed. She hoped to charm him right back. At least enough to get hired. Then the real work began.

Abruptly, Donegan rose from the table and headed straight for her. Had he seen her, sensed her presence?

He’s going to the men’s room, you idiot. It was right behind her. She smiled at her foolishness. As he drew nearer, light hit his face and she was startled by his expression. He looked utterly weary. As if he were desperate to escape the noisy crowd and sleep for a week.

Wow. He was close and if she didn’t speak soon, she’d seem like a bug-eyed gawker. She lurched forward. “Mr. Donegan? I’m Jillian James. JJ? Here to discuss filling in for Kirk Canter?”

He smiled and his expression warmed instantly. “Yes. JJ. That’s right.” He gave her an approving once-over. “Kirk didn’t mention you were gorgeous.”

“He’s never seen me, actually. It’s my cousin Nathan who recommended me. He went to film school with Kirk. Thank you, though.” She tugged at her hair, uncomfortable with the compliment, but trying to look pleased.

“No, thank you.” Again his eyes traced her figure, making her hot all over. She was flattered, of course, though years of being ignored by men because of her weight had given her a solid skepticism about superficial male attraction. In this case, she hoped it made Brody more amenable to hiring her.

Brody nodded toward his crowd at the table. “We’re there if you want to head over.”

“I’ll just wait for you.” She wondered how they would manage a meeting surrounded by the rowdy group now accepting a round of drinks. On Brody’s tab, no doubt.

When Brody returned to her, his smile was so gracious she wondered if she’d imagined the naked exhaustion she’d seen in that unguarded moment.

“Shall we?” He put a hand to her back and led her to the table, fingertips light, the contact easy and natural on her body.

At the table, every head swiveled Brody’s way, every pair of eyes turned to him. The king was back.

“I hate to break up the party, guys,” Brody said, “but we need some alone time.” His tone held a hint of sexual suggestion.

“Fo’ sho,” one guy said.

“Brody swings…he scores,” said another, clinking beers with a third man. Two women cut Jillian glares, the message clear: You’re not that hot.

Donegan’s sexual pretense irritated her, but it worked. After a flurry of female kisses, male backslaps and handshakes, Brody and Jillian were suddenly alone.

Surveying the mess of abandoned martini glasses and beer steins, he sighed. “We’ll be more comfortable in the lounge,” he said and took her to a white leather couch in an alcove.

He sat just inside her personal space and studied her as if she were fragile or a work of art, his eyes a soulful brown that invited you in for a swim. If you had to drown, where better than warm chocolate?

Not Jillian’s usual thoughts about men or their eyes, but Brody Donegan was an unusual man. In person, she saw that he was more boy next door than bad boy. Maybe bad boy next door?

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “What would you like to drink?”

“I’m fine as far as food. Club soda to drink, please.”

“Club soda?” He gave her look of mock disappointment. “Come on. You’re out with Doctor Nite. You need something with a kick. Unless you’re twelve-stepping it, JJ? Are you?”

“Twelve-stepping…? Oh. You mean, am I in recovery? No, no. I mean, I’m not an alcoholic—” She caught herself. “Not that that’s bad. I mean, I know many people…” Her words trailed off.

“Some of your best friends are alcoholics?” He grinned.

“That came out wrong.” She was falling on her first-impression face here.

“Don’t be nervous, JJ. I don’t bite. At least, not hard enough to leave a mark.” He winked. “As to a drink, Andre mentioned this tricky little Australian Shiraz that I wanted to try. How’s that sound? One glass? You’re not driving, are you?”

“No. I came in a cab. One glass sounds fine.”

The waiter appeared like a whispered breath and took Brody’s order of the wine and an appetizer sampler. “Maybe you’ll want a taste,” he explained to her, throwing his arm across the back of the sofa and shifting his body her way.

She became aware of his broad shoulders and long legs, the expensive cologne he wore, the hint of stubble that on most men looked scruffy, but on him looked dead sexy.

Get a grip, Jillian.

She sat on the edge of the couch, her back straight, which was a technique she suggested for news interviews because it made you seem alert and prepared. “About the job…” she said, forging ahead. She intended to emphasize her experience, flexibility and the fact she was a quick study.

“Ever been here before?” he asked, his eyes full of mischief and fun. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get to the point.

“No. I’ve heard of it, though.” She forced herself to relax, take it easier, enjoy the conversation, despite how her heart thrummed and her brain pushed her to spit it out, get to the point, get the job. “It seems like a Doctor Nite kind of place.”

“Exactly.” He shot her a quick grin. “Tonight, though, I’m here for my agent. He’s trolling for new clients and I knew we’d run into people he should know better.”

“Did it work?”

“I think so. These things have to percolate.”

“That was quite a crowd. Your agent and friends? Fans?” Lovers? The jealous daggers the women had zinged her way suggested they had been or intended to be.

“Friends, mostly. Some fans. Acquaintances. Industry people.” He smiled. “The lines blur. Do you have friends you’re close to?”

“Several, yes.”

“You stay in touch…?”

“Sure. By phone and e-mail. Dinners and drinks. A movie or music somewhere when we can.”

“The occasional slumber party? S’mores and pillow fights in your nighties?”

She laughed at the tease, despite her nervousness and urgency. “Sorry, no. Our schedules sometimes make it hard to find the time to get together in person.”

“Does your work consume you, JJ? Are you like that?”

He’d batted her an easy lob she could direct toward the interview. “I do get so caught up in my work I forget everything else, yes.” My biggest flaw is perfectionism. Which was true, but would sound like bragging.

Before she could say more, the runner arrived with their food—a tiered dish holding lobster ravioli, tenderloin satay and confit duck rolls that looked incredible.

“You forget to eat, too?” Brody asked.

“Sometimes,” she said, her mouth watering madly. She’d thought she was too nervous to eat. Brody had charmed her stomach, too.

The waiter appeared with the wine and poured it for Brody to sip. He nodded his approval, and when both glasses were full, held one out to her. “Now tell me what you think.” His gaze stayed with her while she sipped the smoky blackberry wine with a bright finish. “Very nice,” she said. “I like it.”

“Andre never steers me wrong. Now for the food.” He rubbed his hands together, then stabbed a ravioli with his fork and held it out to her. “Give it a try?”

She leaned forward and allowed Brody to feed her the square of pasta, his hand beneath her lips to catch any drips. The intimate gesture seemed completely normal coming from Brody.

The bite exploded in a lush blend of rich shellfish, creamy sauce and delicate pasta. “Oh, my God,” she said.

“Heaven, huh?” He watched her closely as she chewed.

“Mmm-hmm.” She licked her lips to catch a smear of sauce and Brody’s gaze locked on.

She stilled, her tongue midlip.

“Hmm,” he said, then cleared his throat and leaned for a satay stick. He dipped the meat into the sauce, then held it for her. “It’s peanut-ginger, but light. Try it.”

She tugged a bite of beef from the stick and savored the blend of meat and tangy sauce. “Incredible.”

“I know.” He seemed so happy about her pleasure. “The chef plays hard to get with the recipe. I’ve tried everything, even mentioned him on the show.”

“So you cook?”

“When I have time.”

“Does that mean you’re consumed by your work, too?”

“In a way. The show’s about what I do for fun, so I guess I’m always thinking about it, planning it, working. Like I said, the lines blur.” He swirled his wine thoughtfully, then added, “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He smiled at her. “How about you? Would you want to be different?”

“Not really. No.” He sat so close and the way they were talking made this feel like a date, not an interview. She had to stay on track. “It’s late and I don’t want to take up more of what free time you have. So, should we get to the reason I’m here?”

“Sure.” Abruptly serious, Brody set down his wineglass with a firm click. “I’ve been wondering about that myself. Why are you here, JJ?”

“You need a cameraperson,” she said, startled by his changed tone. “Obviously.” She smiled.

“But why you? I looked you up. You do documentaries. You’re absolutely serious and I’m absolutely not.”

“You looked me up?” That surprised her.

He nodded. “I can’t imagine why a woman who scored festival prizes for a film about foster kids would want to work on a cable show about men and beer and sex.”

The blunt question made her stomach drop. She wasn’t ready to mention her new documentary. “Well, Doctor Nite is a hit show and I’d love the credit. It’s a challenge. I like variety. I did broadcast news for several years and—”

“Is it the money? I know documentary makers are always strapped for cash.”

“The money’s important, of course.”

He watched her closely. The man was not nearly as laid-back as he let on.

“I’d value the experience,” she said. “I enjoy learning.” Lame. So lame. She hadn’t expected to be grilled.

“Do you have a boyfriend, JJ?”

“Excuse me?”

“Relax, I’m making a point, not a pass.” He grinned. “At least not yet, anyway.”

Her body responded as if he were, though, warming as automatically as a reflex.

“This job is hell on couples. That’s my point. We’re on the road for days, out all night, surrounded by people looking to get laid. It gets wild.”

“It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it?”

“You got it.” His eyebrows lifted, as if she’d surprised him by making a joke. She was coming off too serious, she realized. That had to be a strike against her with a man known for humor.

“I don’t have a boyfriend, so that’s no problem. Neither is the travel or the hours. I’ll work hard. I’ll be what you need.”

“And what do you think I need?”

There was a beat of heat in his words, something sexy and intimate that caught her short.

“Me,” she blurted. “You need me.”

“Nice one,” he said, tapping his wineglass against hers before turning serious. “It’s a grind, JJ. There’s no glamour. I’m picky and demanding and a pain in the ass. Kirk has the patience of a saint. Most people would want to throw me out a window after the first shoot.”

“I’m very patient. And I’ll shoot until I get it right. That’s how I prefer to work. You can count on me. Not to brag, but I’m good.”

“I have no doubt of that. But I have to say no. It’s been nice meeting you and I appreciate your willingness to help, but I don’t think this will work out.”

“You’re saying no? Just like that?”

A buzzing sound at the table drew her eye. Brody’s cell had lit up and was vibrating against the laminate surface. He picked it up, glanced at the readout and said, “Sorry, I have to get this. My producer has issues with locations to talk about.”

“No problem,” she said, disappointment washing through her.

How could she reverse this? Be funnier, more insistent, more detailed? While she racked her brain, Brody talked to his producer about red tape in San Francisco, then something about Kirk Canter’s surgery at Santa Monica Hospital.

Abruptly, he clicked his phone shut. “I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got to hit the road. They moved Kirk’s surgery up a day and I need to go wish him luck. Let me get you a cab.”

“But I—we—I mean—”

“You’re too smart for this job, JJ,” he said with a compassionate smile. “Wait for something that suits you. Never forget how good you are. Never sell yourself short.” Somehow, he got her on her feet and hustled her out the door and into a cab, handing the driver money for her fare.

“Good luck to you,” he said, leaning in the window. “I’ll watch for your next piece.”

“Wait,” she said. “Is it because Kirk’s a guy? Because it won’t matter. I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Whatever Kirk would do, I’ll do.”

“Score a hooker? Would you do that for me?”

She swallowed hard. “If I had to.” The idea sounded awful, but her chance was slipping away and she couldn’t bear it.

“Don’t think I’m not tempted,” he said, taking her in, dwelling on her mouth, “but this is better for both of us.” He patted the taxi door and backed away.

Her head spun. She’d just been rejected so smoothly she hardly felt the sting. He’d teased her, poured her wine, fed her by his own hand, told her no, then paid her way home. She watched through the rear window as he climbed into a cab and left, taking her hopes and dreams with him.

2

DAMN, THAT WOMAN smelled good. Brody inhaled his fingers where he’d shaken her hand. What was the scent? Fresh laundry, a floral perfume, but also a homey spice that reminded him of something from childhood. What?

Barmbrack. Yeah. The Irish fruit bread his mother used to bake. JJ smelled like home. No wonder she’d caught his attention.

She was beautiful, too, in a way that snuck up on you. Like a young Julia Roberts with a soft mouth and big, intense eyes. Steady. Smart. Interested.

He’d liked that she didn’t flirt. All the women he knew flirted. The head tilt, the teasing smile, the light touch on the arm or the pressure of a thigh…it was as common as breathing in his world.

J. James would be direct. Straightforward. I want you.

He could go that way. Sure. You. Me. Naked. Now. That would be just fine with him. In fact, it sounded damn good.

But he had enough on his plate at the moment. He didn’t need an earnest filmmaker who smelled like childhood and looked like an actress. Even if he did have a thing for Julia Roberts.

He was sorry about the hooker remark, but he had to make the point that Jillian James was out of her league.

Maybe Brody was, too. Sometimes he believed his own hype. Worse, he feared that was all there was to him.

He was more than Doctor Nite. Jesus. He had to be.

He was weary of the role and the fame, tired of people always wanting something from him—to be with him, to be on his show or in his bed. He was actually sick of sex—or at least the one-night stands that served as his nightcap.

He watched L.A. traffic crawl by. Thudding music filled the cab from cars on either side. The night air was thick with the day’s smog. This was his city, these were his hours and he loved it. But he was changing, moving on.

He was done with the show. He wanted to write. He’d started a book. The idea of it twisted him up inside. Writing alternately delighted and terrified him. When he was doing it, putting words on the screen, he felt like the Road Runner dashing over the gorge on thin air. He was good until he looked down.

His cell phone went off and he fished it out of his pocket, startled to see his parents’ number in the readout. It was midnight. God. Had his father had another heart attack?

He answered the phone, fingers shaking. “Pop? You okay?” He held his breath.

“I’m fine, son. I can’t sleep and you’re the only night owl I know.”

“Good. That’s good.” He blew out air, so relieved he wanted to laugh out loud. “So what’s keeping you awake, Pop?”

“I get restless is all. Your mother kicks me out of bed when I get the jimmy legs.”

“That’s understandable.” Brody scrambled for something to talk about. They’d only recently been having these conversations and it took a while to get a comfortable rhythm going. “How’s the work on that Mustang coming?”

“Not too bad. Carburetor’s giving me fits.” He lapsed into a description of what he’d done so far and what he planned.

“You’ll get it. I’m sure you will.”

“Got to before your mother drags me on that cruise.”

“You’ll like it, Pop. There’s bingo and dancing and the food never stops.”

“That’s no good for me, son. Gotta watch my ticker now.”

“They have heart-healthy crap, don’t worry.”

“If it makes your ma happy, what choice do I have?”

He smiled, letting his dad’s voice fill his head, listening as he talked about Ma’s plans for the garden, how good her chiles were, how hard it was to get good help at his auto shop these days, and why the hell was everything so computerized?

Brody was just glad his pop was still around to complain about cruises and carburetors and computers. It had been his pop’s heart attack six months ago that had made Brody decide to change his life.

After a bit, his father yawned.

“You getting sleepy?”

“Guess so. Good to hear your voice. Keep in touch now.”

“I will, Pop.” In fact, he’d put a reminder on his calendar so he’d make a call every two weeks.

When he’d heard the news about the heart attack, Brody had flown home and raced to the hospital, where he was startled to see his parents in a new light. He’d always thought they despised each other, but watching his mother pat Pop’s hand, promising to hide the Jameson and bake only low-fat pasties, while tears rolled down Pop’s cheeks, he knew he’d been wrong. They clearly adored each other. They’d changed or he’d been blind.

He realized something else. He wanted what they had—a life with one special someone and years and years together. The whole trip had been like that. He’d seen his old friend Cal Taylor differently, too. In his heart, a door opened to a world he’d almost missed.

His contract came due soon and he’d decided not to sign a new one. He’d been letting the idea sink in, become real. He’d made the mistake of confessing his discontent to Eve Gallen, his producer. Now she watched him like a hawk. Are you okay? Happy? What else do you need? What can I do? She’d pumped up the volume on everything, hunting up new show ideas, reminding him of the early days, poking at him constantly, driving him nuts.

With her hassling him and his plans to adjust to, he didn’t need a complication like JJ, tempting as she was. What he needed now was focus and discipline, not temptation.

He would get Kirk’s intern to fill in. Dave would slip easily into the groove of the shoot, leaving Brody’s head clear and giving him plenty of time and energy to work on his book.

The cab was closing in on the hospital, so Brody had the guy pull over to a convenience store, so he could nab two Playboys and the latest Gamer magazine. Kirk’s favorite pastimes were console games and naked women. Some of the newer games combined both, to Kirk’s delight.

Brody grinned. He would miss the hell out of Kirk this trip. The accident had been weird. Kirk falling down stairs? Hurting himself badly enough to need surgery? The man knew how to hold his booze and he kept recreational chemistry to a minimum because of the side video work he did. What a drag.

They’d bumped the operation up to tomorrow—the surgeon probably had a golf game—so tonight was Brody’s last chance to visit the guy, wish him well. He knew Kirk was superstitious about stuff like that, so he had to come. He wanted to talk to Kirk about an HBO project he’d heard about, too.

In the emergency driveway, Brody asked the driver to wait, then eased into the dim lobby. Eve had told him what floor Kirk was on, so he took the elevator up and sauntered to the nurse’s station to coax Kirk’s room number out of the short brunette with the stern face and tired eyes.

At the last second, he remembered to hide the Playboys behind the Gamer so as not to offend the woman, whose ID badge was hidden. He glanced at the duty board, then guessed. “Sue?”

“Yes?” She looked startled that he knew her.

“Sorry to bother you, but I’m here for Kirk Canter? He’s expecting me. Brody Donegan?”

“Mr. Canter is sleeping.”

“Oh, I doubt that. They’re cutting him up at dawn.”

“Which is why he needs his rest.” She gave a prim smile.

“See, that’s where I come in. I’m his security blanket.”

“Oh, really?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Yeah, it’s a superstitious deal. For luck?”

She stared at him and he could see recognition dawning. This happened a lot. People realized they’d seen him somewhere. “You look so familiar…. Aren’t you…?”

“Doctor Nite? Guilty as charged.”

“My brother loves your show.” She smiled now, openly pleased, and stepped back, as if in the presence of someone important. He wanted to reverse that. I’m an ordinary guy, sweetheart. I put my pants on one leg at a time like everyone else. Well, except I do it on TV for all the world to see.

“I’d be happy to sign an autograph,” he said, moving his finger as if with a pen.

“Oh, he’d love that.” She seemed flustered, but handed him a square of hospital notepaper. “His name’s Jordan.”

He wrote, “Jordan, your sister is a dish,” signed it and handed it over.

She read what he’d written and blushed.

“I won’t be long, I promise,” he said. “Kirk just needs to rub my beer gut for luck.” He scrubbed his belly through his shirt. Sue’s eyes followed his movement.

“But you don’t have a gut,” she said, a nurse observing his condition, though her cheeks held color and her eyes shone.

“It’ll have to do.” He winked.

“All right, I guess.” She told him the number and pointed. “Down that hall. If he’s asleep, don’t wake him.”

“Thanks, doll.” He headed off, relieved she’d been agreeable. Women tended to like him. Of course, he liked them back. Was it a crime to use his gift to get what he wanted?

He’d begun to think so. Maybe that made things too easy, allowed him to glide, made him too lazy to work for what mattered. His pop, who’d been humbled out of his own wild ways, had always warned Brody against the easy road.

Brody had no real regrets about his life. It was just time to move on, try something different.

He tapped at the partially open door of the hospital room.

“What? Who is it?” Kirk nearly yelped.

“Just your wingman, buddy.” He moved into the room, dark but for the bluish fluorescent light over Kirk’s bed. “Relax.”

Kirk flopped against his pillow in obvious relief.

“Were you having a nightmare or something?”

“Just freaked about the operation, I guess.”

“Are you in pain? Need meds?”

“I’m okay.”

“I stopped by to wish you good drugs and small scars. Sorry it’s late. I just found out they changed your surgery.”

“Better to get it over with, I figure.”

“Here’s something to kill the time.” He handed over the magazines.

“Excellent,” Kirk said, visibly cheered by the gift. “I don’t have either one.”

“So, listen, I need Dave’s number. You have it?”

“My intern? What for?”

“To fill in for you on the shoot.”

“But Eve said you were meeting with JJ tonight.”

“I’d feel better with Dave.”

“JJ’s good, Brode.”

“Oh, I’m sure she is. Just get me Dave’s number, okay?”

“She’s pretty hot. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” That was part of the reason.

“His number’s on my cell. In my bag.” Kirk nodded at the bedside tray, grimacing, as if movement caused him pain.

Brody opened the messenger bag Eve had bought Kirk in an effort to organize the most laid-back guy on the planet.

“While you’re at it, could you do me a favor?” Kirk asked. “There’s a DVD in there I need dropped off.”

The phone in his hand, Brody picked up a generic brown plastic case. “This one?”

“Yeah. Could you drop that off to a guy who’ll be at the Xanadu? He’ll be at a conference there on Thursday—that’s your first night, right?”

He nodded. They launched each shoot with a couple nights at the Xanadu, a landmark resort popular for its proximity to LAX and its business amenities. Kicking off the run at the luxurious old place felt lucky to Brody.

“Freelance project?” Brody asked.

“More or less. I could courier it, but the guy will be at the hotel. His name’s Lars Madden. I’ll tell him to call you. I’d do it myself except for…” He raised his sling-covered arm.

“You just get better, my friend. I’m glad to do it.”

Kirk fell back against the bed, looking exhausted. “I’m sorry to let you down on the taping, Brode.”

“You fell. Not your fault. Just be more careful on the stairs.”

“Yeah.” A peculiar look crossed his face, then he shook it off. “I’ll be back as soon as they’ll let me.”

“No rush. And, listen, I understand they’re looking for an assistant director on that HBO project.”

“I heard about that, yeah.”

“So go for it.” He leaned in so Kirk would know he was serious. “It’d be a great opportunity for you.”

Kirk shook his head. “Too much pressure. Some good people already said no. I’d never leave you. I’m your cameraman.”

“Don’t get pigeonholed, that’s what I’m saying.”

“You know me, Brode.” Yeah, he did. And when Brody left the show, Kirk would be thrown big-time.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work with JJ,” Kirk said. “What was it? She say something wrong?”

How could he put it? She smells too good? She’s too smart, too Julia Roberts? “I didn’t get the right vibe.”

He said goodbye and backed from the room, thinking about JJ. She might have spiced up the shoot. Half his problem might be boredom. She had a great voice. Low and husky, but smooth, too. Like rough honey…

“Brody?”

He was startled to hear that rough honey voice say his name. He turned and there she was, as if he’d conjured her up. “JJ?” He was pleased to see her, no matter how strange it was. Had she told her driver, Follow that cab? “This isn’t, like, a stalking thing, is it?” he said.

“No. Not at all.” Even in the dim light, he saw she’d blushed. “You mentioned the hospital where you were going and I realized I could help with the red tape in San Francisco.” She held out a business card, her fingers shaking a little, so he knew she was nervous.

“That’s a woman in the city tourism office who’s a wizard at making things happen. Mention my name. I hope it helps.”

Her eyes moved across his face, her wavy hair quivered against her shoulders. She was breathing hard and her breasts rose and fell, appealing in a simple white blouse that looked as sexy as plunging silk.

“Thanks,” he said. He liked her green eyes, her steady gaze. Her smell, of course. Her voice. Her body, chest, legs. She met him eye-to-eye. He liked that, too.

Keep it up, Brody, and you’ll be the stalker.

“This job is really important to me.” She met his gaze, standing solid and steady, telling him what she wanted.

“It must be. You chased me all the way here.”

“There’s another thing,” she said, not even smiling at his joke. “I’m working on a documentary about…um…dating. I hoped we could fit in an interview.”

“You want to interview me?”

She nodded. “You’re something of an icon for single men.”

“I like sex and I talk about it on the air. I’m hardly statue worthy.”

“Men in bars all over the country play drinking games when you’re on the air. How does it go? Every time you say ‘The Doctor is in’ they all drink shots?”

“So you’ve seen the show?”

“Seen it? I’ve studied it.”

“I’ll give you an interview for your movie, JJ. You don’t have to work for me to get it.”

“I need to. For the perspective. We’d have more time. Please. I’m…desperate.”

“I’m not in the habit of turning down desperate women.” She’d come all this way. For a woman as no-bullshit as she was to beg meant something. He would like having her around, he realized. Maybe he needed a woman’s viewpoint—other than Eve’s, who seemed devoted to keeping everything the same. JJ was so…interesting.

He went with his gut on big decisions, but it had been his head that had insisted he not hire her. Now his heart wanted a vote. His heart wanted to see what would happen.

Maybe he could handle his plan and JJ, too. She was looking at him with her eager, steady eyes, hope shining in her face. How could he turn her down?

“You won’t bitch when I shift shots fifty times or drag you out in the rain at one in the morning or make you run footage until you want to puke?”

“I won’t. I swear.” She made an X with her fingers across her chest. And what a nice chest it was.

He sighed and dragged his eyes up where they belonged. “Anything to keep you from stalking me, I guess. You’re in.”

Her smile was so bright it lit a fire in her green eyes. “Thank you, Brody. You won’t regret this.”

He sure as hell hoped not.

“Eve will call with the details. We start Thursday at the Xanadu. First meeting’s around noon in my room.”

“Great. See you there!” She danced off to her cab.

Watching her ride away, he had the feeling he’d be better off grabbing the first joker he could find with a digicam than hiring the woman, but it was too late now.

All the same, he grinned all the way home.

3

JILLIAN LET her room door close, tucked the key card into her wallet and checked her watch. Two minutes to noon. Just enough time to get to Brody’s suite, where she was to meet with him and his producer, Eve Gallen, to go over the trip and plan the night’s shoot.

She was on the twenty-fifth floor of the Xanadu, a big, bustling hotel with endless, poorly marked corridors she’d gotten lost in more than once already. Refurbished repeatedly, it was an odd mix of luxury and convenience—elegant deco furnishings with modern minioffices in spacious rooms.

She took a deep breath of the gardenia scent misting the hallways and headed for the elevator across the thick, silver-and-black, deco-style carpet, the only sound her slides slapping her bare soles.

Inside the elevator, she checked herself out in the mirrored walls. She looked decent in a red jersey top with spaghetti straps and khaki capris with plenty of stretch—she might not have time to change before they set off on the shoot and she needed to be able to bend and kneel with ease.

She couldn’t believe how late they were starting. She usually put in five hours by noon, but she was on Doctor Nite time now. She would adapt to late hours and wild nights.

She still felt queasy about how she’d gotten the job. She’d practically stalked the man, then groveled. Begged. Hell, she’d offered to hire the man a hooker. On the other hand, too much was at stake to accept no. Doggedness and total focus had earned every success so far. Those traits would help her now.

She was nervous, she had to admit. She’d doubled her usual run to calm herself, but so many butterflies packed her stomach they could barely flutter a wing.

She’d called the We Women Network and left a voice mail with May Lee, the head of acquisitions, telling her she’d gotten the job and would score the “inside scoop, the real nitty-gritty” on Doctor Nite.

The real nitty-gritty? She couldn’t believe those words had come out of her mouth, but that was how the game was played. She had to tantalize the network, get them hot for the project, then the caliber and substance of her work would make the final sale.

Outside Brody’s door, she took a couple of settling breaths, determined to be cool and calm.

She’d have to contend with that snap-crackle of attraction, but Jillian knew how to manage that. She kept sex in its place, like everything else in her life. Weeks of twelve-hour workdays limited her free time. When she did connect with a man, she kept it friendly, not making any promises or expecting any back, and she had a serviceable vibrator for the in-between times.

Any flare-ups with Brody she would douse, no problem. She would be the consummate professional and hope he’d forget about the hooker request and her groveling. Oh, and the sexual sparks.

Composed and determined, she tapped at Brody’s room. After a long pause, the door flew open to reveal Brody…in his boxers.

She took in rounded pecs, a flat belly, a thin, teasing trail of dark hair, black underwear. Silk, maybe? The fabric was shiny and slippery. Thick, almost like satin—

Whoops. She jerked her eyes up where they belonged.

“You’re early,” he said, his voice scratchy, his eyes at half-mast, leaning on the jamb, muscular arm extended upward.

“You said noon.”

“I said around noon.”

“Sorry. I just thought—”

“’Sokay. You’re eager.” He managed a slow spider-to-the-fly grin and waved her inside.

She entered the room, dim and intimate, with its unmade bed, tangled sheets, the bolsters tossed carelessly to the floor. So he was a wild sleeper. Or maybe he’d had company. Was there a woman? No, the bed was empty. Besides, that was none of her business. Again, she pulled her gaze to him.

Brody gave her his once-over, though the sleep crease in his cheeks softened the effect to sweet instead of predatory. “So you’re perky in the morning,” he said, scratching his hair with his knuckles, tousling it nicely.

“I like mornings. Is that bad?”

“And a health nut on top of it.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You’ve exercised. Your cheeks are flushed.” He rubbed his knuckles against his own cheek, then ran his eyes down her length and around her body. “A runner, right? With those calves…absolutely.”

“I do run, yes, but that doesn’t make me a nut.” He was as observant as a detective, and it made her uncomfortable. She decided to turn the tables. “You obviously exercise, too. Good pecs, flat abs, developed quads.” She swallowed over a dry throat. “So you must lift weights. But with those shoulders and that tan, you swim, too.” She stopped talking, not sure the hard-body inventory was helping her problem.

“It’s all in my contract,” he said, evidently not bothered by her exam. “If they can pinch an inch, I’m out.” He grabbed a bit of skin beneath his rib cage. There was no fat to grab.

“You’re joking.”

“Not completely, no. Speaking of which, I’m starving. Let’s order breakfast, huh? What would you like?”

“I already ate, thank you.”

“But hours ago, right?” He put his finger to his chin. “Let me guess. Fruit, granola and yogurt.”

“A smoothie,” she said, annoyed at how close he was. “Aren’t you going to guess the flavor?”

He moved in, startling her, and sniffed. “Too long ago. I’m just getting you.” She felt a zing of unwanted electricity. “You smell great, by the way.”

“Thank you.” He seemed so aware, so there. She picked up his smell, too—warm skin, a trace of last night’s cologne. His grin was lazy and knowing, and she found she was holding her breath.

“How about if I order a few things? Maybe you’ll nibble, like the other night.”

“Whatever you want,” she said, deciding to be as cooperative as she could.

“And to drink? I’m having coffee, but I bet you’re more of a hot-tea girl. Say, chai spice?”

Her favorite, dammit. “No one likes to feel predictable.”

“How about noticed? Don’t you like to be noticed?”

“Who wouldn’t?” That was his secret, of course. Or one of them. All that attention was tough to resist in a world where it was all about me, me, me. Especially with men. A man who paid attention, really listened and remembered…was golden.

Brody moved to the phone and placed a lengthy order, turning to smile at her as if she were his room service conspirator.

It was unnerving to stand this close to a nearly naked Brody, looking at him over his bed, while he guessed her pleasures, his voice lazy with sex—er, sleep. Jeez. “Don’t you want to put some clothes on?” she said, sounding more exasperated than she’d intended.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” This seemed to delight him.

“Of course not. Get naked if you want. I’m ready to work.”

“Mm-mm-mm. With lines like that, you’re going to be a hell of a lot more fun than Kirk, that’s for sure.”

“He’s not your type?” She was pleased to tease back, to reverse his impression of her as too serious.

He shook his head in mock sorrow. “Too much body hair.”

“That makes sense. However, I doubt I’m your type, either.” She was trying to joke, but it came out sounding defensive.

“What does that mean?” Brody moved to stand toe-to-toe with her. She didn’t back up, despite how big and male he seemed, his bare chest gleaming in the shard of sunlight that sliced between the blackout curtains.

He was studying her. “You’re not fishing for a compliment. That’s not you. Ah…I get it. You were insulting my type, right? Which is, what, brainless sluts?”

“That’s not what I meant at all.” The reaction was deep and knee-jerk, from her past, but she could hardly get into that.

“Brainless sluts need love, too, you know.”

“I’m sure they do. That wasn’t what I was saying or what I meant. It’s just me. Just old stuff popping out, God knows why.”

“What old stuff?”

He acted honestly curious and he’d no doubt drag it out of her anyway, so she just told him. “I was overweight—a fat girl all through college, actually. So guys were my friends, not my boyfriends, okay? I wasn’t any guy’s type.”

“You’re thin now,” he said simply.

“That happened by accident. I was working days at a news station in Fresno and making films at night—too busy to eat and jogging to boost my energy and all of a sudden, guys started looking at me instead of through me.”

“You sure that was it?”

“Oh, yeah. I was the same lively, interesting person I’d always been, but no guy noticed until I got skinny.”

“That must have pissed you off.”

“Royally. I got over it, though.”

“Not entirely, right? Hence, the comment?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“The past colors the present, JJ.”

“Ah, so this is why they call you doctor,” she said, deflecting his analysis with a joke. “You’re analyzing me.”

“I charge $150 an hour and accept most insurance.”

“Please. What kind of therapist practices in his underwear?”

He laughed. “My more traditional clients sometimes insist I wear pants.” He sighed.

“I see,” she said.

He smiled, moving close to her. “If it makes you feel better, JJ, I don’t sleep with my crew. Even moral reprobates have some standards.”

“Good to know,” she said, startled by his frankness.

“So now can you drop your shoulders? They’re up around your ears.” He squeezed her muscles there with such perfect pressure that tension peeled away like the skin of an apple under the sharpest of knives.

“Oooh,” she said.

“Turn around,” he whispered.

She did and he began to rub in earnest.

“Wow. Oh, wow,” she said. “That feels great.” Not suggestive at all. It was pure physical relief. She let it go on entirely too long, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a massage and it was just soooo nice.

“That working for you?”

“Oh, yeah.” She tried to collect her thoughts, say something funny or sensible. “You give shoulder rubs to all your crew?”

“Only the cute ones.”

“Kirk? Never mind. Too hairy, right?”

“You’re catching on.” He patted her shoulders, signifying he was finished. “Now what was I doing? Oh, yeah, putting on my pants.” He went to the side of the bed, whistling softly.

There was a knock at the door. Figuring it was room service, Jillian answered, but instead she found a short woman holding a stack of multicolored file folders in the hall. Eve Gallen, Brody’s producer, no doubt.

Her eyes widened when she saw Jillian, but when she looked past her to where Brody was pulling up his pants, they narrowed, along with her lips, and her face took on an ah-ha expression. She thought that Jillian and Brody had been…oh, damn.

Jillian reached out a hand. “I’m JJ. Filling in for Kirk on this shoot?” She hoped her tone cleared up the false impression.

“I know who you are,” Eve said, with a businesslike handshake and a brief smile.

“I got here early. I thought noon meant noon.”

“Then you don’t know Brody.”

“She’s learning,” Brody said. “I answered the door in my shorts and shocked the shit out of her.” He was clearly trying to show that nothing sexual was going on.

Eve paused, seemed to accept that, then strode to the window to fling open the curtains. “You live like a vampire, Brody,” she said, dusting off her hands. She had bird-bright eyes and a restless energy, and she took over the room, putting a third chair at the table, shifting Brody’s laptop to one side, taking legal pads and stapled pages from her messenger bag and laying items at each place.

Jillian raised her gaze to Brody, who shrugged. “Eve’s the boss. I’m just the hired help.”

When the food arrived, Eve signed the check, too, then lifted off the cover plates and stacked them. She looked over the omelets, sausage, granola, yogurt and pastry Brody had ordered, then grabbed a bear claw and bit into it. She made a face. “This isn’t blackberry, Brode.”

“They were out. It’s fig. Sorry.” Brody poured orange juice into a glass of cranberry juice and handed it to her.

“Thanks,” she said.

Jillian was impressed. Brody had ordered his producer’s favorite foods, including a juice combo he’d prepared for her.

Eve sipped the juice, nibbled on the pastry, then nodded slowly. “Goes good with the juice.” She scooped ice from the water glass into Brody’s coffee, taking care of him, too.

“The tea yours?” she asked Jillian, sounding almost offended by the presence of an alien beverage at the table.

“Yes,” she said, preparing her cup.

“Brody guess what you liked to drink and eat?” Eve asked.

“He did, as a matter of fact.”

“That’s the Brody Treatment. You’ll get used to it.” Her words felt like a subtle jab. He does this for everyone. You’re not special.

Brody circled the food cart, moving with an athlete’s grace in bare feet, loading his plate with an omelet and sausage and fruit. He looked like a Calvin Klein ad, his chest still bare, his jeans low on his hips, his boxers peeking out.

A sigh escaped Jillian.

“You okay?” Eve shot her a look.

“Fine.” Stop staring at the man. Her cup rattled in its saucer as she took her place at the table with Eve.

“Top sheet is the itinerary,” Eve said, then flipped to the next page. “The second is a shot list for tonight and tomorrow.”

“Looks good,” Jillian said. Eve was clearly organized. Her folders were color-coded by city, Jillian noticed, reading the tabs. They would be on the road for nearly a week—spending two days in L.A., two in San Francisco and two in San Diego, before returning to L.A. for postproduction work.

Jillian wouldn’t be needed for that.

Brody joined them, but he didn’t look at Eve’s pages, just dug into his food.

“I don’t know how familiar you are with Doctor Nite, JJ,” Eve said, “but men watch our show for the hottest clubs, the sexiest events and the wildest women. When you’re looking for shots, you’re going to have to think like a man. Maximum skin is what we’re after. Short skirts, serious cleavage, all the tongue kissing you can score. Think Mardi Gras. Think spring break.”

Think vulgar, woman-hating, exploitive. “I get it,” she said, Eve’s condescension annoying her. “I’ve watched the show.”

“Studied it, you mean,” Brody said, shooting her a wink.

“Then let’s dig in,” Eve said. “First I wanted to show you some new stuff I’ve got going, Brody.” She whipped a paper from a red folder and gave it to him.

He read down the list. “You’ve been a busy girl.”

“I’ve barely begun. Most of this can wait for Kirk, though.” She shot Jillian a patronizing look.

“You don’t need to do extra stuff. We’re fine.” There seemed to be tension between them. Had Eve disappointed him?

“We can’t dial it in, Brody.” She glanced at Jillian, almost as if she wished she were gone, then back at Brody. “Your fans count on you. We can’t take anything for granted. It’s good to shake things up.” The two watched each other for a moment.

Jillian shifted and her leg jarred the table, making Eve sit straight, then tap her folders straight. “So! Moving on. Today’s shoot.” She flipped to the second stapled page.

Jillian was watching her, wondering what was really up.

With an impatient huff, Eve flipped Jillian’s papers to the correct page. “You’ll get used to how we work,” she said, her tone suggesting Jillian was already hopelessly behind.

“School of Bondage?” Jillian read from the page.

“We’re filming the dominatrix class,” Eve said, as if it were an everyday thing to do. “Then we’ll hang in the bar where the students and teachers mingle and practice.”

“I’ve planned out the Top Ten S&M Tips,” Brody said.

“Good. We need to save time if we want to get footage at the condom factory before they stop the machines for the day.”

“Will I be able to scout these places?” Jillian asked.

Eve’s gaze shot to her. “Traffic’s brutal and we have lots to discuss. Kirk always wings it.”

“I’m sure JJ can wing it, too,” Brody said. “Speaking of Kirk, have you talked to him today?”

Eve’s face softened. “He’s great. They’re releasing him this afternoon.”

“He was higher than a kite when I called last night.”

“He’s already doing physical therapy.” She smiled. “I’m so glad that’s over. Kirk was so flipped out.” She paused, lost in thought for a second. “Oh, yeah, he wanted me to remind you about some DVD. The guy’s supposed to call you tonight?”

“Sure. Yeah. I’ll drop it off for him.”

“Anyway, okay, so let’s see…. Back to San Francisco.”

“Did that tip from JJ work out with the tourism office?” Brody asked, shooting Jillian a wink.

“Yes, actually, it did.” She lifted her gaze to Jillian and said a quick, begrudging, “Thank you.”

“No problem. I’m happy to help.” Even if I’m not Kirk.

Eve hunkered over her notes. “Turns out we have to revise the San Francisco segments, since the show will run on Valentine’s Day. We’ll use ‘Raunchy Romance’ as the theme. All we have to do is add some V-Day bits. I hate Valentine’s Day.”

“Why is that?” Jillian asked.

“It’s death for single guys,” Eve said. “Girls get all gooey and want promises, and guys get stuck with the bill.”

“It’s a racket,” Brody added. “Guys forking over a fortune for a fat diamond floating in Cristal, flaming dishes in restaurants where even the busboys are snots, and for what? If that’s what love is, save your money.”

“Good stuff, Brody,” Eve said. “Use all that. Also, how is a single guy supposed to get laid on Valentine’s Day? Do a riff on that. You know, how all the available chicks are home moping, eating Chunky Monkey from the carton, watching sappy movies in their sweats, wishing they had a boyfriend.”

Jillian needed to contribute something to the brainstorming. “Why not hang out at the video store where the women are renting their sappy movies?”

Brody and Eve stared at her, blinking.

“Say, fiveish, after work,” she continued. “Stand in the romantic comedy aisle, holding When Harry Met Sally or Sleepless in Seattle.”

“Too gay,” Brody said. “Maybe American Pie II or There’s Something About Mary.”

“I guess the movies don’t matter, as long as you look harmless and lonely. Oh, and buy snacks. Popcorn and M&M’s?”

“The doctor is in,” Brody said. “Good one, JJ. So, Eve, score us a video store we can haunt? We can get opinions on our theories, too, while we’re there.”

“Video stores are chains. I’ll have to deal with corporate permissions. It’ll take time.”

“You’re the queen of pulling rabbits from hats.”

Eve sighed, but a smile teased her lips. She grabbed Brody’s laptop and began clicking away.

Brody leaned close to Jillian. “You are good,” he said.

She was glad she’d impressed him. Now she had to get through to Eve. While they worked, Jillian complimented the woman’s planning, her filing system, hell, her acrylic nails, but the producer remained distant with her.

Two hours later, Eve looked at her watch. “The crew will be here soon, Brody, so let’s wrap up.”

“Time for Red Stripe and beer nuts,” he declared, picking up the phone to call room service.

“I’d like a club soda, please,” Jillian said.

“Do you believe this woman, Eve? Club soda?”

“Brody hates health nuts,” Eve said matter-of-factly.

“Sorry. But would you also add a fruit and veggie tray?”

“If I have to,” Brody said, grinning. “As long as you keep it away from the good food.”

The rest of the crew arrived and went over technical details about the upcoming shoot, while drinking beer and wolfing nuts. Jillian liked that the show worked with a bare-bones staff in an informal atmosphere. Brody asked about kids and pets and planned vacations, and she could see the crew loved him. She liked Brian and Bob, the light and sound guys she’d work most closely with, and felt good about their skills.

The crew left, Eve ran down one last checklist with Brody, then declared them set. It was nearly 4 p.m.

“The vans will be out front in exactly two hours, so don’t be late,” Eve said to Jillian, messenger bag over her arm.

“I won’t,” she said, fighting the urge to defend herself. I’m a professional and as prompt as sunrise. Instead, she gathered up her papers and purse.

Lounging on the couch, Brody took a long swallow of beer, his throat muscles sliding, forearm muscles twining, legs stretched out. He was still half-naked and all male. Even his toes looked sexy.

Jillian could hardly take her eyes off him.

“What are you up to now?” Brody asked her.

“I’m going to check my equipment, think through the shots, plan things out a bit.”

“Don’t get too locked down,” Eve said. “Brody always shakes things up. Kirk goes with the flow. That’s the best way.”

“I understand,” she said. “I’m sure it will be fine.” Grr.

“You should take a nap,” Eve said to Brody with an affectionate smile. “We’ll be out late. After the taping, I thought we’d check out that new bar near the W.”

“I’m making it an early night, Eve.”

“On our launch? We always party.”

“Not this time. Not me.”

“But I already rounded up the crowd.”

“You’ll have fun.”

“It’s not the same without you.”

“Take my credit card and it will be.”

Eve stared at him. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

“I’m fine. Just taking it easy for a change. Thanks, ladies. Here’s to a great tour.” He tilted his beer at them.

“Looking forward to it,” Jillian said, but she noticed Eve was watching Brody and chewing her nail.

The two women moved outside Brody’s room.

“So, you and Brody seem to be close,” she said, thinking that if she could get Eve talk to her about Brody she might learn some interesting tidbits. She wondered if they’d ever been an item, back before he made that rule about crew.

“We’ve worked together a long time, sure.” Eve paused, then looked at Jillian dead-on. “Brody’s a friendly guy, open and easy to talk to, but he’s really a very private person.” Don’t even think you’ll get close.

Jillian had to try. Maybe he was happy to be a playboy forever. Or maybe that weary look she’d seen meant something. Maybe that was what had Eve worried, too.

Jillian had a week to find out.

4

IT WASN’T BONDAGE SCHOOL that surprised Brody—he’d expected the place to be decorated like a torture chamber, with displays of menacing devices and all the students in leather and latex and spikes—it was Jillian’s reaction to the place that amazed him.

She was relaxed, as calm and easy as if she were filming a field of wheat, a sunny meadow or a small-town park. She focused on the best angle to view a whipping, the right lighting for black leather, how to capture shiny spikes without glare.

He almost laughed when she shifted furniture and climbed a ladder to get the perfect shot of a paddling. Kirk would never have gone to that much trouble.

She put up with a bunch of Brody’s reshoots without complaint, too, just as she’d promised. When Brody blew off the shot list, instead of going along like Kirk would have done, she’d do the new stuff, then go back to what they’d planned and do that, too. She missed nothing.

He was behaving differently, too. Showing off, for one thing. When the head dominatrix, Mistress Mona, tried out the cat-o’-nine-tails on him, it stung like a bitch, but he’d refused to wince.

Now they were in the bar, which was raking in cash with overpriced liquor. The whole school was a moneymaker with brutal tuition fees and criminally expensive paraphernalia. A hundred bucks for a rubber hood? Come on. All part of the punishment, he guessed.

In the bar, the students and teachers mingled, leather and rubber clothes squeaking, chains clanking. It was like some weird costume party with everyone in black and metal.

Whatever stuffed your jeans, he guessed. Not his thing.

They had tons of footage, but he still had that restless, unfinished feeling, so he motioned JJ over, hoping for some ideas. Between shots, he’d noticed how busy she was, scoping the place, talking to the instructors, the patrons, the bartender.

“I need something more from the Queen of Pain,” he told her, nodding toward Mistress Mona, holding court at the bar. “Any ideas?”

She didn’t miss a beat, just leaned close to talk low in his ear, giving him a delicious blast of her spicy scent. “See the guy in the Girls Gone Wild ball cap at the back table?”

He looked, spotting the guy with his frat-boy buds. They’d stumbled into the place, not knowing what it was, then stuck around to gawk and joke.

“He’s laughing like his friends, but his eyes never leave Mona. I think we should bring her to his table.”

“You don’t miss much, do you?” he asked her.

“I try not to. No.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” he said, thinking about the interviews he’d promised her and all he had to hide.

“I’ll go talk up the college boys,” she said. “You tell Mona.”

He headed for the bar and sat beside the dominatrix. “A minute more of your time, Mistress Mona?”

“Yes?” she purred, pursing bright red lips. Her hair was teased platinum and her eyes were heavy with black gunk—pure drama, but he’d seen she had humor about herself, unlike the students who were hyper about the rules of their sexual roles.

“I think we know someone who could use a touch of your lash,” he said.

“Tell me more,” she said in the German accent that ebbed and flowed. While he explained the plan, he glanced over to see how much more time JJ needed. He was surprised to find her waiting for him, ready, and she’d gotten the frat boys primed, too.

She was fast, moving like smoke, subtle and smooth, never drawing attention to herself, almost invisible, efficient and effortless and always there. She’d even gotten Brian and Bob to pick up the pace. The lights and boom mic were ready, too.

She’d told him she often did her own lights and sound on documentaries because it lessened the intimidation factor. The fewer people and equipment, the more relaxed her subjects were.

He and Mistress Mona moved toward the frat-boy table and JJ signaled she was rolling tape.

Mona loomed over the boys, silencing them, and the kid in question blinked up at her. “I’m not really into all this,” he said, looking utterly enthralled. JJ had been right about him.

“Come on,” Brody coaxed. “We all need the occasional smack on the behind, don’t we, Mistress Mona?”

“You vill gif your mistress respect,” Mistress Mona snapped. “Take off zat ridiculous cap.”

The kid jerked the hat from his head, grinning, his face pink. Oh, he was into this, all right.

“Wipe zat smile off your face.” Mona whipped her crop onto the table so that it slapped his fingers.

The kid stared at his hand, then at Mona, utterly thrilled.

“I’ll leave you two alone.” Brody patted him on the back and stood. “Enjoy. The cat-o’-nine-tails is intense.”

JJ backed up, keeping the camera on Brody as he left the table. She was waiting for his wrap-up. He liked that she’d picked up on their system.

“Whatever polishes your jewels, guys,” he said into the lens, walking slowly enough that JJ and Bob could keep their equipment steady. “You like rubber hoods or get off on wearing pink panties under your Dockers? As long as no one gets hurt—well, sent to the hospital—go for it.”

He needed something else…a final comment.

JJ pointed him toward a student practicing her riding crop moves on a guy’s backside.

“My turn?” Brody said to the girl, then turned and bent over. She smacked him lightly.

“Oooh, the Doctor is in,” he said with a wink, holding his pose until JJ took the camera away from her eye.

“You got what you needed?” he asked her.

“I did. Yes.” Her voice was low and throaty. There was that spark again, flying between them, unexpectedly strong. She felt it, too, he could tell, but backed away fast. He couldn’t figure out if she was scared of it or irritated by the distraction. Interesting…

“We’ve got to move,” Eve said, bustling up, her messenger bag tugging her shoulder down. It amazed him how much junk she hauled around—energy drinks, files, notebooks, forms, batteries, cosmetics, even a flashlight and, for some reason, latex gloves. “They’re waiting for us at the condom factory.”

“I’d like to look over the footage before we go,” JJ said.

“You’ll have to check it in the van,” Eve said. “We don’t have time for a reshoot anyway.”

Why was Eve so bristly with JJ? She was always a steamroller, but she was particularly pushy with JJ. Had Eve picked up on the attraction? Maybe she missed Kirk. The two of them bickered like an old married couple and they talked daily.

At the van, JJ let him help her into the seat, then set up the computer and external drive for a playback, quick and efficient, resting the laptop on both their knees. He liked the slide of her thigh against his own.

Eve sat up front where she could more comfortably boss the driver. Eve made him grin. She had the tenacity of a terrier, a great eye for detail and was utterly competent. Sometimes over the top, but that was part of the package.

He was determined his crew would make a soft landing when he left the show. He’d take care of them all—Eve and Kirk; Brian and Bob; the assistant producers who helped Eve from time to time; Chloe, his editor.

Maybe Doctor Nite would get a new host. His network had done that with that car mechanic show. Talk shows did it all the time. Maybe they’d hardly notice he was gone.

“Brody?”

He drew his attention back to JJ, who nodded at the screen. “Does this B-roll work, do you think?” Never wasting a minute, she’d grabbed charming background shots of bondage students in class while he talked to the instructor. Kirk needed to step it up. He’d been dialing it in as much as Brody had begun to do.

“I’m thinking we could cut this piece—” she shuttled the video further “—and shift to here. Do you agree?”

She sat so close he could smell the strawberry scent of her clear lip gloss. JJ wore little makeup. She didn’t need it, as far as he could see.

“Uh, yes,” he finally said, realizing she was waiting for his reply. “Looks good.”

“I don’t want to push you into shots you don’t want, so tell me to back off when I’m out of line.”

“I’m always up for a better idea. You didn’t mind the multiple takes?”

“Not at all. I want to do this right. Like I said.”

“Yeah.” He paused, lost in her steady, green eyes. “Like you said.”

“So, am I giving you what you need?”

Not yet, but I have some ideas…. He cleared his throat. “You’re doing great.”

“Except that extra interview threw us off,” Eve said, evidently listening in. “We have to keep on schedule or the shoot spirals out of control, JJ.”

“You’re so tough, Eve. Mistress Mona could take lessons,” Brody said, trying to tease away his producer’s edginess.

“What’s the deal with Eve and me?” JJ muttered very low.

“Later,” he said softly, then raised his tone to a conversational level. “So now on to condoms, right? I’ll ask the guy about what’s new—materials, shapes, colors, textures—and find out what’s popular these days.”

“Here’s an idea,” JJ said. “What if we also interview women about the features? Cut back and forth from the factory guy describing the item to the users’ take on the feature.”

“That’s pretty arty for Doctor Nite.” He shook his head in mock disapproval. “But we want to stay fresh, right, Eve?” He leaned forward to involve her in the conversation.

“We’d need samples from the factory. And what women would we use?” Eve asked, then answered her own question, clearly intrigued by the challenge. “Privilege has tons of models. It could work. I just wish you’d think of these things earlier.”

“Come on. You know you love to perform last-minute miracles, Eve.” She’d do anything to make the show better. He winked at JJ, who shot him a thumbs-up.

He liked that. It felt like the old days, when the nutty chaos and crazy energy of location shoots had energized rather than exhausted him. It was all due to JJ—her skill, ideas and liveliness. At the moment, despite how distracting she was, he was glad he’d hired her.

BY THE TIME they pulled into the driveway of the Xanadu at close to midnight, JJ was physically and emotionally wiped out. Physically, her shoulders throbbed from all the handheld work and schlepping her heavy tripod—it had better fluid heads for panning.

Emotionally, she’d been on a roller coaster. Bondage School had been surreal, but she’d maintained her professionalism. The condom factory had been fascinating. Then they’d hit the bars and started on the typical Doctor Nite segments, which had bothered her. She’d shot women pretending to be turned on as they unrolled condoms onto bananas from the bartender’s daiquiri supply or onto Brody’s fingers, while Brody made suggestive remarks. All night, women rubbed against him. Two of them flashed boobs at him, nearby men howling like jackals.

Jillian gritted her teeth the whole time. It was her job to go along with the exploitive, offensive aspects of the show. Hell, she was making the show better. She couldn’t help herself.

She vowed to get in the woman’s view wherever she could. Getting women’s opinions of condoms had been a start. Though each conversation deteriorated into flirting with Brody.

That didn’t surprise her. Despite his offensive on-camera persona, Brody charmed her more and more, adding to her confusion. He seemed untouched by fame. Everywhere they went, people demanded autographs, hugs, handshakes, kisses, sometimes full-body humps, depending on the sex and drunkenness of the fan. Brody remained patient and gracious, smiling at the hero worship, signing his name on whatever he was offered—a sodden napkin, tattered bar menu, a bare back or a naked breast.

Plus, she approved of how he worked. He was demanding, quick to dump a setup for something better, no matter how long it had taken to arrange. That was how she worked, too. He asked for her feedback and retook every shot she had doubts about.

The physical closeness was wearisome, too. Man-woman electricity hummed and snapped constantly. But these moments of mind-reading teamwork were the worst, shooting ever more powerful jolts of attraction straight through her.

Shaky from the emotional whiplash of the day—loving her work and hating it, fighting her attraction to Brody and being drawn deeper into it—Jillian was relieved they were done for the night. A tension headache raged behind her eyes.

Brody led the way into the crowded lobby of the Xanadu, decorated everywhere with patriotic-hued bunting in honor of the political convention being held there, and Jillian couldn’t wait to get upstairs and fall into bed.

“I see more condom opinions dead ahead,” Brody said, motioning toward the lobby bar, packed with people wearing convention name tags. He turned to her, took in her face and hesitated. “Unless you’re too tired?”

“Of course not.” JJ managed a smile, determined to be a trouper. “Lead the way.” She hefted her camera onto her shoulder and followed Brody to a table of four women who turned out to be just tipsy enough to say yes to interviews.

Brian and Bob set up lights and sound while Eve nabbed releases, and in minutes they were rolling.

“Condoms prevent disease and pregnancy. Period,” a blonde in glasses said. “They’re like brushing your teeth to prevent cavities. A necessary pain in the ass.”

“What’s with the ribs and colors?” added a brunette in a chignon. “You can’t feel those teensy bumps and who cares what color it is?”

“And the flavored ones? Forget it,” added a black woman with cornrows, shaking her head so the beads rattled. “They taste like the rubber dams my dentist uses.”

“Plus, they’re like thirty calories each,” added a rail-thin redhead.

“No!” said the blonde. “Not thirty? Aren’t they sugarless?”

“Don’t get fancy, I say,” declared the redhead. “Just make them with no holes. Functional. And, for God’s sake, men, practice. The fumbling has got to go.”

They wrapped the shoot, which she’d enjoyed despite her headache, and the crew disappeared. She noticed one of the women slipping Brody a business card with what looked like a room number on it. Ah, her cue to escape. She was relieved, since she’d planned to ask Brody for an interview after the shoot, but was entirely too tired to try for it. Now it was impossible.

“I’ll head upstairs,” she said, backing away.

“Me, too,” Brody said, half-rising, as if he were leaving, but the women made disappointed noises and she knew they’d keep him longer.

At the gift shop, Jillian had to wait for the sleepy clerk to find her an aspirin packet she could buy, but finally she was in the elevator, relieved to be away from Brody and her growing attraction to the man.

It was ridiculous, she told herself. The man was probably a sociopath. Certainly his TV character was, treating women like enemies to be conquered, sex objects to be preyed upon. The show’s message was “Screw anything in skirts, then run like hell.” She hated that attitude. Meanwhile, she kept reliving the pleasure of his eyes on hers, his hand at her back, his thigh rubbing against hers in the van. What a girl she was.

On her floor, she took the wrong corridor first, but finally found the arrow to her hall. Just around the bend was blessed peace. She would take the aspirin, stretch out with some dull talk show and drift to dreamless sleep.

Except when she turned the corner, there was Brody again, leaning on her door, watching for her, a big grin on his face. He was such a male animal, strong and relaxed against the door, jeans low on his hips, easy in his skin, confident his body would do whatever he asked of it.

Whatever she asked of it. Her weary body went on full alert and she felt tight and wet in a secret place.

Stop that right now, she commanded, as if she could control her body’s fluids and flows and reflexes.

When she got closer, she saw Brody had four liquor miniatures between his fingers and a DVD case under his arm. “What’s up?” she asked, trying to smile in welcome.

“I thought we’d toast the shoot and check out the footage.”

“How’d you get here so fast?”

“I left when you left.” He nodded at the aspirin bottle. “You have a headache?”

“A bit of one, yes.”

“That my fault? I work you too hard?”

“Of course not. It’s my sinuses. Hotel air is so dry.” She had to lie. No way could she let him know she was exhausted on her first shoot. “I thought you’d be busy. I saw that woman give you her room number.”

“Not brainless enough for me.” He grinned at her, his expression almost fond. She realized this was a perfect chance to get to know the man behind the persona, maybe get that interview. That was her reason for being here, after all.

“I’d love to,” she said, steadying herself against the tingles and heat of her body’s response to the man. “You want to watch that?” She nodded at the DVD under his arm.

“Nah. I’ve got to drop this off with a guy on your floor. It’s a favor for Kirk. When he calls I’ll take it over.”

She waved him into her room, which had been neatened by the maid, scanning for anything she didn’t want him to see. The bathroom mirror reflected her black bra on a hook from when she’d hand-washed it. Whoops. She hurried to snatch it down.

“Black lace…nice,” he said.

“Not that it’s any of your business.”

“I’m interested. Curious. Aren’t you a curious person? Being a documentary filmmaker and all? Don’t you have to be nosy?”

“Yes, actually, I am a curious person.” All her life she’d asked questions of everyone about everything. Her parents, especially her father, used to complain about her nonstop demands for answers. Which made sense, since he had all those affairs to hide. The last thing he wanted to do was say where he’d been and what he’d been doing.

“What is it?” Brody asked, leaning toward her.

“Just thinking,” she said, wishing he weren’t so observant.

“You’re always analyzing. Figuring the angles, working things through in your mind.”

“No more than most people, I don’t think.”

He just looked at her, telling her that she wasn’t like most people and that he liked that about her. She felt warm all over, almost girlish. Ridiculous.

He studied her—hair, face, body—lingering over each feature as if she were a shiny toy he wanted to take apart and put together. Then he smiled, pleased with what he’d discovered.

“So, what will you have, miss?” He laid the small bottles against the back of his forearm like a sommelier presenting a wine for her approval.

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