Hidden Gems

Carrie Alexander

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Book 2 of THE WHITE STAR mini-series, where romantic legend and the battle between good and evil meet the contemporary sizzle of a Blaze® love story. What a treat it’s been for me to work with the group of talented authors and editors who were involved in this project. I’m thrilled you’re sharing the adventure with us!

My story is a light caper with a friends-to-lovers theme. I like a strong heroine, and Marissa Suarez is that: bold, confident and mouthy. Usually I’d match her up with an equally bold hero, but Marissa needed someone to trust. Someone like Jamie Wilson, the “boy next door.” When a powerful amulet comes into their lives, along with threats and danger from all directions, Marissa learns that Jamie has been her hero all along.

Please enjoy their story. You can follow the twists and turns the amulet takes through the subsequent White Star books from Kristin Hardy, Jeanie London, Shannon Hollis and Lori Wilde. Visit my website at www. CarrieAlexander.com for contests, excerpts and more.

Best wishes,

Carrie Alexander

To Jennifer for being in my corner

With thanks to Kathryn for trusting me

with her baby

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Copyright

1

“I HAVE NOTHING to declare,” Marissa Suarez told the customs agent in a voice like broken glass, “except that my boyfriend’s a swine.”

A snicker rose from the crowded line behind her.

The bored official merely stamped her customs declaration form without looking up. “You can’t bring pork products into the country, ma’am.”

Marissa squinted. “Oh, don’t worry. I left his bacon miles behind.”

Paul Beckwith, forthwith known as Cheating Slime, was still in the Cayman Islands hobnobbing with his clients. If he’d missed Marissa it was only because she wasn’t there to slather sunscreen on his perfectly trapezoid shoulders and back. But any bunny off the beach could handle that duty. Paul would have no objections. When he hadn’t been ditching her for “vital” meetings, he’d been drooling over every pair of bouncing breast implants on Seven Mile beach.

Marissa Suarez was not a woman who put up with that kind of bullshit.

She was, unfortunately, a woman who chose the kind of man who shoveled it.

Every…damn…time.

With a clenched-teeth smile, she took the card from the customs official and tucked it into her passport. She truly had nothing to declare. Returning five days early from a supposedly romantic getaway, she was not only sans boyfriend, but minus the promised toasty tan and post-coital bliss, too.

However, she had acquired a resolution during the flight into JFK: no more bad choices, no more mistakes.

Next time—because, let’s face it, she wasn’t going to swear off men altogether—she would pick a guy who was the antithesis of the handsome, career-driven charmers she usually went for. Someone sweet, tender, laid-back.

So what if she wasn’t sweet, tender or laid-back herself? Opposites were supposed to attract.

New arrivals jostled into the roped-off customs line. A fat woman with a bad sunburn and a floppy hat jarred Marissa’s elbow just as she’d twisted to tuck her official papers into the straw bag hanging off her shoulder.

The documents flew from her hand. When she bent to reach for it, the woman beaned her in the head with a bulging carry-on.

Marissa bounced off the cordon and pitched forward in her spike-heeled sandals, falling onto her hands and knees. “Ouch!”

“Let me help,” said a deep male voice. The French accent seemed to be authentic, but in Marissa’s current state of mind she was prone to doubt the sincerity of the entire male species. “These people have no manners.”

The stranger knelt near her suitcase, smoothly offering one hand to help her stand while swooping up the passport with his other. He was dark and slight, with a seriously I’m-too-French-for-razors stubble happening below his gaunt cheekbones. He reeked of tobacco. Smoky sunglasses concealed his eyes, but she sensed he’d evaluated her in one lizard-like blink.

Marissa rose and brushed away the strands of hair that had come free of her ponytail. Her knees stung. “Thank you, but please let me have that,” she said, being politely firm as she reached for her passport.

The Frenchman had maneuvered her around so that her back was to the bustling meet-and-greet area. His eyes crawled over her photo ID and return ticket. Marissa steeled herself to deflect a suave compliment on her ebony hair or exotic eyes—she’d heard them all—but he simply handed over the passport without comment.

After a glance past her shoulder, then the faintest twitch of a smile, he melted away into the nattering crowd of arrivals who’d cleared customs. “Good day.”

Odd. Marissa snapped the passport shut and pressed it to her breastbone, feeling the way she did when a shadow passed over the sun. She checked her luggage, half expecting that he’d lifted her wallet. But all was intact, including the tagged and processed bag sitting at her feet.

“Outta my way, supermodel,” said the fat woman in a Bronx patois that hacksawed through the moment of unease. She trundled by with a large stack of luggage.

“Pardon,” Marissa trilled. Thankful that she’d traveled light, she reached for the small suitcase that was packed with little more than damp bikinis, shorts, tanks and a couple of sundresses. The big straw carry-all she’d purchased on the island held a stash of Evian, her wallet and passport, makeup bag, camera, the current issue of French Vogue and five crumpled sheets of stationery from the Grand Cayman Beachcomber.

Paul—Sorry, but I’m leaving. I was annoyed when you abandoned me at the hotel bar, but to ditch

Paul,

Next time you invite a girlfriend on a business trip, don’t claim it’s a romantic getaway.

Dear Paul,

Clearly, we are not working out. It was a mistake to get involved in the first place, so I’m sure we can agree to pretend that this never hap

Dickhead—I’m so out of here!

Dear Paul—I’ve booked an earlier flight with my return ticket. First class. Don’t worry, I paid the difference myself. Enjoy the rest of your midnight “business” meetings.

Your ex,

Marissa

THE FINAL VERSION of the letter was the one she’d stuck on the mirror in their suite, then removed at the last moment. She was better at face-to-face confrontation. But there’d been no time to wait around for that, and, anyway, he’d deserved to be left in the dark about her sudden departure.

She’d swept the wadded-up notes into her bag so he wouldn’t find them, grabbed her swimsuits off the shower curtain rod and hurried to the lobby to catch the late airport shuttle. After making a couple of calls to friends to let them know she was on her way home, she’d turned off her cell phone for the duration of the trip.

She had no intention of listening to Paul’s outrage at being left in the lurch. Recriminations weren’t her thing. Neither was wallowing and weeping. She always recognized when a relationship was over and believed in lopping off dead meat with a quick, decisive cut.

Which would be much easier if she hadn’t made the colossal mistake of hooking up with a workmate from Howard, Coffman, Ellis and Schnitzer, the Manhattan law firm where she’d been employed since graduation from Columbia Law. Fortunately, Paul would be even less inclined to bring their breakup into the office. She was still one of the multitude of associates, while he was on the fast track to junior partner. He had more to lose.

Marissa left the customs area and stepped sideways around a couple of city cops with radios clipped to their shoulders and holsters at their hips. They were coordinating with an airport official and his uniformed security staff, passing out photocopies of a suspect’s mug shot.

Uh-oh. Security sweep. Get a move on.

Marissa slipped in and out of the crowds of huggers and criers, still worrying about her job. She’d known it was a foolish move to get involved with Paul, yet she’d done it anyway. Even in the early days of the romance, when he was charming and attentive and neither of them had been thinking of practical matters, she hadn’t expected to avoid office gossip entirely. The legal secretaries always knew which of the firm’s employees were getting their briefs filed, even when the senior partners were oblivious.

Worse, she couldn’t blame Paul for the bad decision. She’d made the choice. She’d believed he was worth a risk. She’d believed maybe this time…

“When will I ever learn?” she muttered, digging into the straw bag to find her cell. She flipped it open and checked her messages, dodging an overzealous gypsy cabdriver who tried to snag her arm.

Four messages from Paul. She got a petty but satisfying spurt of retribution by deleting them with a punch of her thumb.

She almost bumped into a young woman in religious sect garb: head kerchief and a plain calf-length dress with a white collar and black stockings. The girl turned, smiled modestly and offered Marissa a bloom from the bucket of daisies and tulips at her feet.

A pure white Stargazer lily.

“Beautiful,” Marissa said, surprised. Even though she didn’t usually slow for hucksters, she dug into the straw bag and pulled a five out of her wallet.

“Blessings on you.” The young lady nodded. “May you find true love.”

“Yes, here’s to love.” Marissa meant to be sarcastic, but no conviction remained. Although coming home early was a smart step, she would have to continue traveling in a new direction if she hoped to find true love.

Ah, but did she? That was a question to ponder. Not looking for love wasn’t working. How likely was it that she’d have any luck if her expectations were even higher?

Juggling the phone, she tucked the lily behind her ear, then returned to her messages. One was from her mother in Miami, who had the notion that any time Marissa flew over Florida she should stop in to say hello, as if the airlines issued parachutes along with packets of stale peanuts.

The last message put a smile on Marissa’s face. Jamie Wilson. Her best friend, guy version. If there was anyone who could untwist her insides and aim her in the right direction, it was Jamie. She speed-dialed him.

He answered on the first ring. “Where are you, babe?”

“Back on U.S. soil. Making my way to the taxi lane.” Jamie was the only man she let call her “babe.” From a snake like Paul, the pet name would ooze with condescension. From Jamie, it was about cozy familiarity, as if they were an old married couple who finished each other’s thoughts. Which they almost were. Jamie was the straight Will to her Grace, proof that men and women truly could be “just” friends.

“Did you practice your yoga breathing on the plane like I said?” Jamie was always telling her she needed to slow her usual pace—full speed ahead.

“With a carpet salesman from Jersey and his horking wife at my elbow? Not a chance. But after the attendant had removed the airsick bags, I did wind down with one of those itty-bitty bottles of rum.”

“You’ll be dehydrated then.”

“I know. Want to meet me for drinks? Maybe a little cheese with my whine?”

“How about actual food?”

“I guess.” Her stomach was hollow, but she was too hyper to eat. Normally she’d channel her energy into a good workout—either at the gym or in the bedroom— but that was out for the time being. Tomorrow, she’d get back on the treadmill, literally and figuratively. If she never found an appropriate man, at least she’d qualify for the fitness Olympics.

“I need to stop by home first to dump my luggage,” she said, tugging at the shoulder strap of the suitcase. “Meet you there.” Jamie lived upstairs from her, in a vintage brownstone in the Village.

“Where are you now?” he asked.

She glanced up. “Almost to the exit. If the taxi line isn’t too long, I’ll be in the city by—”

“Turn left,” Jamie said.

“But—”

“Just do it.”

Because it was Jamie, she obeyed, making such an abrupt detour she almost tripped over the trolley of Louis Vuitton cases a chauffeur was wielding like a feed store wheelbarrow.

Jamie appeared out of the moving crowd, cell phone at his ear.

“You dork,” she said, blinking back the moisture that sprang to her eyes. “I told you not to go to the trouble of meeting me.”

“Hey, a vacation breakup deserves an airport pick up. It’s synergy.” He dropped the phone into the pocket of his baggy khakis and put his arms around her. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t find a car to borrow. We’ll have to get a taxi.”

She pressed her face into his shoulder, just for a moment or two. Three, four, five. Her heart surged with gratitude. He felt as warm and comforting as ever, but also muscled and solid. When had that happened?

He’d been a skinny dude with an unintentionally hip geekiness when they’d met three years ago while playing Ultimate Frisbee with a group of friends in the park. In between putting in eighty hours a week at work, she’d been dating one of her typical Mr. Right Turn To Disasters. Jamie had been seeing her ex-roomie, self-proclaimed bitch diva goddess Shandi Lee—an odd couple if ever there was one. The relationships had lasted just long enough for Marissa and Jamie to avoid the awkward “should they or shouldn’t they?” moment and settle into platonic friendship.

Lucky timing, Marissa had always thought. Jamie Wilson had become the only long-term chromosome XY in her day-to-day life, the only male, aside from her cat, Harry, that she wasn’t pressured to impress.

“Marissa,” he said, patting her back. “I’m sorry.”

She squeezed him, allowing his sympathy even though too much sentiment usually made her itchy and restless. Outside of the holidays, when she was a sap about family cheer and goodwill to men, she kept her game face on. A single woman in Manhattan had to be tough.

And yet once again she felt herself relaxing into Jamie’s patented comfort zone, the one place where she let down her guard. He felt strong. He smelled good. Not like Paul, granted, who’d given off the alpha wolf eat-or-be-eaten pheromones that typically revved her engine. But surprisingly good, all the same.

Surprisingly sexy for a best friend.

What? Her head cranked back.

Beep, beep, beep. Time to back up that truck before it drove over the cliff looming ahead.

“Enough of this. I’m not dying.” Marissa pulled out of Jamie’s arms. “It’s just another breakup. I’ve survived them before.” She tucked away the cell phone that was still clutched in her hand, watching his face through her lashes while she snapped the bag shut.

Jamie seemed unaware of her instant of sexual awareness. He looked the way he always did—strong nose and jaw, blunt cheekbones, big dark blue eyes with sleepy lids beneath the mop of nut-brown hair that fell across his brow. A mouth so mobile that she’d learned to read his emotions from the shapes it made.

At the moment he was holding a faintly quizzical smile, his expression as clear and innocent as a choir boy’s. No sign of any of the messy, secret yearnings she’d occasionally worried he might harbor for her, that Shandi, among others, had sworn were there.

Who knew that Marissa, the tough chiquita from the barrio, would crack first?

She shrugged. Well, whatever had happened was only a momentary weakness. Gone like a speeding bullet, she told herself, although an alarming amount of warmth toward Jamie still simmered inside her.

Ignore it. No more mistakes, remember?

“You okay?” he asked, taking her rare uncertainty for Paul Beckwith aftereffects.

“Sure.” She tossed her ponytail. “You know me. Paul’s roadkill in my rearview mirror.”

“But this time, you’ll have to keep seeing him.” Jamie had warned her not to have a workplace affair. He was always so sensible, telling her in his evenhanded way exactly what was wrong with the man she’d chosen. That he was invariably right but never said “I told you so” was one of his most endearing characteristics.

Which didn’t mean she’d ever learn to listen to him! But it was nice having someone looking out for her.

“Not to worry,” she said. “We’re both too busy for office drama.”

“If you say so.” He scowled as he took her bag.

“Now, Jamie. I only need one stern papi and I left him behind in Little Havana.” Jamie’s brotherly concern was nowhere near as stifling as the concern of Alberto Suarez, an old-fashioned Cuban American who thought that his eldest daughter should be married and popping out babies like a good little Catholic. Two years shy of thirty and she was already considered an old maid by her family. “So don’t look at me like that.”

Jamie blinked. “Like what?”

“Like you know what’s best for me.” She kissed his cheek. Another tingle of awareness chased itself over the surface of her skin, which she continued to ignore. Jet lag could knock anyone off center.

“Someone has to,” he teased. His eyes went to the lily in her hair.

She touched it, feeling an emotion so rare she almost didn’t recognize it. Shyness.

“You look very tropical.” His voice rasped.

“Even without the tan I was promised?” She made a face. “Instead of lying on the beach, most of my time in the Caymans was wasted holed up in the suite or hanging around the bar, waiting for Paul.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“Exactly. Once I realized that, I made my escape.” They walked through the exit doors. She scanned the cordoned taxi line, dismayed to see that it would be another wait for transportation. “Men don’t treat me that way more than once.”

“Like what, specifically?”

Marissa gave a snort. “Like an accessory.”

Her father had attempted to raise her to be what he considered a “good” girl—obedient and humble. Obviously that lesson hadn’t taken, perhaps because he’d also taught her pride and pugnacity by example. Instead of accepting a gender role, she’d preferred to outdo his expectations for the boys in the family, even when that

meant working as a waitress to put herself through the first years of community college, even when she was told over and over that she would never make it.

The desire to achieve a success that would show them all what she was made of had become her driving force. She couldn’t be like her cheery, tolerant mother, née Mary Margaret McBride, who was content in her little cottage, still in love with her bantam rooster of a husband after thirty-two years of marriage. Or her sister, Graciela, who’d married at twenty and now had a husband who spent more evenings out drinking with his muchachos than at home with his family.

Marissa appreciated her parents for the stability and love they’d given her and her brothers and sister. But she’d known from the age of ten that she had to be aggressive or she’d never get away. If she was single-minded and frequently too abrupt, that was why.

Until she was where she wanted to be, she couldn’t let up. She couldn’t slow down.

Except with Jamie. He was her release valve, as she was his energy pill. They went together like salt and pepper, up and down, yin and yang. Each gave as good as they got, and it worked.

“An accessory?” Jamie had to know there was more to her early return than that, but he wasn’t one to push. “For a smart man, Paul sure is dumb,” he said cheerfully. “You’re a treasure.”

Marissa shook her head. “I’m a woman in need of a giant Cubano sandwich.” Suddenly she was starving.

“Then let’s get out of here so I can feed you,” Jamie said, reverting to the reliable friend she recognized. They’d reached the head of the line and he’d stashed her suitcase in their taxi’s trunk. He held the door open, smiling at her, adorably rumpled in a tee layered over a white cotton shirt with frayed edges. No fashion plate, her friend, Jamie. Nothing like Paul, who spent more on his wardrobe than many women.

Marissa climbed into the taxi. After she was settled, she took a moment to thank her lucky stars for the Frisbee she’d mistakenly aimed at Jamie’s nose the day they’d met. She was certain that he’d never once thought of her as an accessory, even though she’d been his plus one at a number of the events that he attended in his career as an arts writer for the Village Observer, a smallish daily newspaper targeted at the city’s trendy, upscale culture vultures.

No. To Jamie, she really was a treasure.

The surprise for her was in realizing how mutual the sentiment had become.

JEAN LUC ALLARD had given the officials the slip. Child’s play, he thought as he slithered through the throng near the airport exit, though in fact he’d narrowly escaped the wide net cast by the cops and security guards that had swarmed the JFK terminal.

He’d skipped out of the boarding area in the nick of time, then taken the long detour through Arrivals to avoid crossing under their noses. But they’d also covered that area.

An unpleasant surprise. One that had forced him into ditching the goods despite the huge risk that entailed.

After making his move, he’d managed to reach a rest room, where he’d switched his dark glasses and leather jacket with the Patriots jersey and baseball cap stowed in his bag. The fake French passport he’d booked his tickets under was lodged in the crevice behind one of the sinks, replaced with an American one that claimed he was Joe Martin from Stonington, Massachusetts.

The risk made Allard’s gut churn. Fortunately he’d planned for all eventualities. But how had the bastards known where to find him in the first place?

A lucky tip from an informant…or a double cross?

Unlikely. He’d had contact with no one except his employer, a wealthy European with a large bank account and a larger ego. Allard had a number to call when he reached the rendezvous point, and no more.

He was on his own. As he preferred. His father had taught him to trust no one.

Even in the innocuous getup, passersby gave the Frenchman’s black scowl a wide berth. He paid them little heed, consumed by his racing thoughts. There would be no mercy with a fortune at stake. He would cut the throat of any person who dared stop him.

Already he had left one body behind. He’d coldcocked an interloper outside the ransacked safe of Stanhope’s Auction House, snatching the prize from the man’s hands even as he’d crumpled to the floor. Naturally, the theft of late heiress Zoey Zander’s vast collection of jewels had made the news. Every thief of international repute was reported to be a suspect.

While the New York police had paddled in place, squabbling with Interpol like ducks on the Seine, Allard had bided his time in a nondescript Brooklyn hotel room. Once he’d believed the stateside situation had cooled down, he’d booked a ticket to the Buenos Aires drop point.

To be thwarted now made his blood thin with displeasure. Merde! He’d been one boarding pass away from his escape.

That he’d become the security agent’s quarry was not in question. What remained to be seen was if they’d realized that the heist had been arranged solely to acquire the White Star, an ivory amulet so rare and revered that few had known of its existence until the auction house had publicized the contents of the Zander estate.

For these past weeks, he—and he alone—had owned the White Star. Caressed her. Held her to his lips in defiance of the legend she carried, which prophesied love for the pure of heart, a cursed future for all else.

And now she was gone.

Though Allard’s face betrayed no emotion, his tongue was bitter with frustration.

He spat. Pah.

The anxious officials’ presence had prevented him from boarding the flight to South America. He’d been cornered like a rodent, forced to take an incredible risk. Getting caught with the amulet was not an option. Therefore, regrettably, the White Star was no longer in his possession.

An extreme nuisance, that, but a necessity under the circumstances.

Carefully positioned out of the bustle, but close enough to move fast when need be, Allard cupped his hand to light a cigarette. He leaned against the building, dragging on the stinging taste of tobacco. Behind the sunglasses, his eyes zipped back and forth between the herds of American travelers, most of them waiting patiently in line like cows.

Ah, there she was.

Marissa Suarez. Stunning girl, with silken black hair and legs that went forever. It might be amusing to prolong his surveillance and seduce his way into her apartment rather than resort to the usual break-in. His employer would not approve of the indiscretion, but the man seemed to have a talent for buffing his nails while subordinates accomplished his dirty work.

Allard didn’t mind. He excelled in living on the fly, taking advantage of opportunities that presented themselves.

Smoke curled from his nostrils. Covertly he studied the girl. She was smart, aware of her surroundings, holding her straw bag close to her body while she waited at the curb. The man who had met her inside kept a firm grip on the other bag.

Allard saw he had no choice. An immediate recovery attempt was too risky. Not only were there authorities in the vicinity, but the girl could identify his face, particularly if he attracted more attention to himself.

He should have chosen a less observant mark, one of the weary tourists with their heaps of mismatched baggage. All too stupid to realize what he’d planted on them. But this one had literally fallen at his feet.

The boyfriend put his hand at her back, guiding her into a cab. The vital suitcase had gone into the trunk.

Allard ground the cigarette beneath his heel. He smiled to himself, pleased by his maneuvers. The unfortunate situation was under control. While his employer would be enraged if he knew the treasure had been out of Allard’s hands for even a minute, the man need only be told of the unavoidable delay of their rendezvous. Let him sputter and squawk. In the end, he would wait.

As would Allard. For a million euros, he could put up with any annoyance, any delay. He was beholden only to the White Star.

A sharp whistle summoned one of the gypsy cabs. He slid inside and mumbled a directive to the driver around the fresh cigarette he’d inserted in his mouth. As the vehicle pulled away, two of the security guards emerged from the terminal, their frustration as evident as their empty hands.

Smirking, Allard slunk low in the back seat while the car neatly whisked him away from beneath the officials’ noses. He’d escaped unscathed once more.

2

MARISSA YAWNED and leaned her head on Jamie’s shoulder. “How come we’ve never had sex?” she said with a throaty giggle, snuggling up to him in their favorite carved wooden booth at Havana Eva de Cuba, where he’d been plying her with carbohydrates instead of alcohol.

Jamie dragged in a deep breath before draping an arm around her. He was too nice for his own good. Definitely too nice.

“I mean, it would be so easy,” she continued, her voice muffled by his chest. He had to lean his head closer to hear her over the din of the busy and colorful restaurant, a frequent hangout only two blocks from their apartment building. Marissa liked the place for the ethnic menu and decor that reminded her of home, not that she’d ever admit to such sentimental longings.

As for Jamie, he’d go anywhere she did.

“I know you wouldn’t hurt me when we broke up,” she finished. “And then we could still stay friends.”

Since she’d spent the past ninety minutes telling him and her girlfriends that she wasn’t hurt by Paul’s betrayal, the first part of the statement was more revealing than she intended.

He touched his nose and lips to her hair, hurting for her more than she’d ever hurt for herself. Marissa pained him, she frustrated him, she exhilarated him. He’d wanted her from the day they met, but now wasn’t the time to take her question seriously. “Why would you want to start something with the intention of breaking up?”

“Not an intention. A given.” She tilted her face up, lightly knocking her forehead against his chin. Her lids were weighted and she had the dopey, slightly boozy grin that meant she was about fifteen minutes from crashing. “I’m a realist. There’s always a breakup.”

“Only because you choose the wrong men.”

She sighed and snuggled back in. He felt a shiver pass through her slender body. “We’ve already established that there’s something off about my taste in men. And since I agree that I’ve got to stop doing this to myself, next time I need to find a nice guy. Like you.” After a moment—Jamie was sure only he felt the strain of it—she chuckled. “But of course not you.”

Of course not. He looked at the tin ceiling. At least she still remembered there was a possibility of their having got together at some point. Perhaps he hadn’t wandered so deep into the “just friends” zone that there was no coming back.

Three years he’d known her. Three years waiting for the right time to tell her that he thought there could be more than friendship between them. First, there’d been other people in their lives. Then, for a long time, he’d

convinced himself that she was hopelessly out of his league—a savvy, single-minded attorney who worked and played among the upper strata wouldn’t be interested in an easygoing arts writer who counted his dog among his best friends. So he’d kept his interest buried beneath layers of playing the good guy and best friend. Told himself he was better off that way, since Marissa lost her good sense when it came to her love life. He didn’t want to be one of her regrets. To say nothing of losing her as a friend.

Cassandra Richards returned from the ladies’ room to lean over the table. She was part of Marissa’s circle of friends, a stunning blonde who worked in fashion, in some sort of public relations capacity. The type of woman who, with one flick of her lashes, could make Jamie feel like a teenager again—all ears, nose, big feet and gangly limbs. He frequently found himself wondering how a brainy boy from the Connecticut suburbs had wound up associating with such Manhattan beauties. If his teenage garage band could see him now…

“How’s our girl?” Cass asked. She had dropped by to lend her support, even though Marissa had been adamant about how very okay she was without Paul… while downing mojitos, one right after the other, before the food had arrived.

Eyes shut, Marissa aimed a sleepy smile at her friend. “Drifting.”

Cass sent her wry look Jamie’s way. “Finally.”

Marissa’s index finger twitched. “You go home. I’ve kept you too long.”

“I’ll hold your hair anytime, Mari.”

Marissa grinned at the girlfriend shorthand for their mutual support system. She pressed a hand to her stomach. “No literal pilgrimages to the porcelain goddess tonight, please.”

Jamie rubbed her back, hoping for the same. He’d hold back her hair, but not if that made him one of the girls.

“Time to take her home,” he said to Cassandra, who’d arrived in a slouchy sweater with her whisper-fine hair tucked haphazardly in a clip. She still managed to look like a princess among the paupers.

“Need any help?”

“Thanks, I’ve got her.”

Cass snapped open her bag and dropped several bills on the table to pay for a share of the drinks, sandwiches and très leches. She’d matured from the last time Jamie had seen her. According to Marissa, Cass had fallen under the good influence of a cop from Queens. That sounded like a strange pairing to Jamie, but he’d taken it as a sign of hope for himself.

“Great,” Cass said, “because I’ve got work in the morning, unlike Happy Holidays here. I need to get home.”

“Hold on.” Jamie made a motion to slide out of the booth. Marissa tried to straighten up, not very successfully. “I’ll walk you to the train.”

“Nonsense. It’s not that far to Tribeca. I’ll grab a cab.” Cass leaned down and pecked Marissa’s flushed cheek. “Call you tomorrow.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Take care.” Cass gave Jamie an appreciative smile. The luggage they’d stored under the table caught her eye as she turned to leave. “Don’t forget the bags.”

“Nothing important in ’em,” Marissa murmured. “Just my broken dreams.”

Jamie waved a couple of fingers at Cass before turning his attention back to the woman tucked beneath his arm. Marissa, she of the sharp angles and razor tongue, wasn’t warm and cuddly very often. Was it wrong to enjoy the hell out of holding her this way when she was only looking for a friendly shoulder?

“Also your passport and credit cards and house keys,” he said, nudging the suitcase with his toe.

“Gawd, I’ve become maudlin.” Her face scrunched in revulsion. “That means it’s abs’lutely, positively time to go.”

“Are you up to walking?”

“Sure. I’m not drunk. Only kind of loose.” She let her arms flop.

Like a broken doll, Jamie thought, knowing that tomorrow she would be a warrior woman again. Tonight there was a rather large chink in her armor. If ever he’d have the chance to explore her feelings for him…

But he couldn’t take advantage. Not because he was all that noble. Because she’d be miffed with him tomorrow, and Marissa in a temper brought even more of his hidden feelings to the surface. Her passion had always awed him. Although he’d tried to keep himself at arm’s length at the start of their friendship, he’d been a moth to her intense flame. No way could he maintain a distance, even when that meant going home singed by her lack of awareness. He told himself that while being her lover would be incredible, having her as a friend was enough.

Jamie hesitated. He’d lied. Friendship wasn’t enough. Besides, she’d brought up the question, not him. But he’d like an answer.

Why hadn’t they ever hooked up?

Marissa spoke first. “I’m sorry I’ve been so needy. You probably had better things to do this evening.”

“Not at all.” He had a movie review to write, but that wasn’t due until eleven tomorrow morning. Plenty of time, especially since he’d be up all night, taming tonight’s wayward urges. Marissa had no idea what he suffered for her.

“Ready to go?”

“I guess.” She slid out of the booth.

“Wait here.” He went to pay the bill to speed up the process, idling for a few minutes in the throng around the cash register. He watched the dark glimmer of Marissa’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar. She stared blankly across the room. Vulnerability was evident in her unschooled expression, and he nearly groaned out loud at the rare sight.

Oh, hell. He couldn’t press her tonight. She needed a white knight. That would be him—again.

She was squinting into the crowd when he returned. He asked her what she was looking for and got a shrug. “Thought I saw someone from the airport.”

“Not Paul.”

“Course not. He’s still in the Caymans, having meetings.”

Jamie handed her the straw purse, then dragged the lightweight suitcase out from beneath the table. “Are you ever going to tell me exactly what happened there?” A chattering group pushed past them to claim the table.

“It’s so predictable.” Marissa took a big breath when they emerged onto the street. “I hate being predictable.”

The night air was cool and fresh, a rarity that was unique to a few brief weeks of spring in the city. After the long winter, the Village had burst into life, throbbing with the beating drums of meeting, teasing, making love, making mistakes. Or maybe it was just Jamie’s head screwing with him because that was all that he could think about, especially since Marissa had brought up the subject of sex.

They headed toward the crosswalk onto Bleecker Street. “C’mon, tell me the story,” Jamie said. “I need to know whether or not I have to beat up Paul.” The statement was sure to get a laugh, given his resident pet geek status.

Marissa didn’t laugh. She peered at him from the corners of her eyes for a full five seconds before her berry-ripe lips stretched into an amused smile. “Thanks, darling. I’ll just kick Paul in the family jewels if he ever approaches me again.”

“Ow.”

She took his hand, twining their arms and swinging them as they walked. The cool air had perked her up. “Paul and I had been falling apart even before the Caymans. The trip was a last-ditch effort to keep the romance going.” Her face went grim. “If it was ever a romance at all.”

“I thought that Paul had swept you off your feet.” Hearing the details of their fancy dinners with champagne and roses had eaten Jamie up inside.

“Yes, well, turns out that I’ve been deceiving myself about what we meant to each other. After the first flush of attraction, we had nothing in common except ambition.” She squeezed Jamie’s fingers. “That’s always my mistake. I go for the flashy dressings when what I need is a man of real substance.”

What she needed was to figure out why she was drawn to the wrong men when she knew she’d end up unsatisfied. He’d recognized the pattern four disastrous relationships ago.

“What did Paul do?”

“I’m more unhappy with myself than him.” She wrinkled her nose. “But it was like I said. He promised me a fabulous spring vacation in the Caribbean. Then when we got there I found out he’d actually set up meetings with clients. The Cayman Islands have advantageous offshore investment and banking regulations. We have several clients who’ve incorporated their businesses there to avoid taxes.”

“Isn’t that kind of shady?”

“Not really,” she defended. “The law is the law. Howard, Coffman is a reputable firm.” A frown crossed her face. “I’ll admit I became curious about what Paul was up to. But when I asked to come along, he told me to get out of his business and into a bikini.”

“Ah.” Jamie almost smiled. He’d known the arrogant Paul would shoot himself in the foot sooner or later.

“Yeah. You know I hate getting that head-patting thing from guys. He tried to make it up to me when he came back, but I wasn’t having any. After that, it was all downhill. He ditched me in the hotel bar and took calls the one time we actually made it to the beach.”

She stopped, shook her head, then resumed a faster pace as they turned onto their home street, a short, narrow lane lined with chestnut trees and brownstones that had gone dark and quiet. “Enough. Let’s just get home. I’m boring even myself with this rehashing.”

“He hurt you. I can see it.” Jamie was agitated because he knew Marissa was leaving something out. It wasn’t like her to be evasive.

She turned quiet, firming her soft mouth as she stared straight ahead. Their footsteps echoed. “He cheated, okay? He said he had one last late-night meeting, and I guess that much was true because I saw him through my—”

She shot a shamefaced look at Jamie. “I didn’t mean to spy. I’d been snapping photos of the sunset from the hotel balcony. I happened to spot Paul through the lens, a short way down the road outside a beachfront bar. He was talking to a man with a briefcase, so I didn’t think too much of it until this island hoochie-coochie came up.”

Marissa was absorbed in the story now. They’d slowed to a stop near the wide front steps of a stately brownstone with double oak doors, half a block from home. Jamie put the bag down and took her other hand.

She gave him a chagrined grin. “You know the type. Semi-pro. Big bleached-blond hair, implants, pink lipstick, high heels. I thought she was with Paul’s client because he kissed her hello, but then she attached herself to Paul. And he was willing.”

“You saw all of this through the camera?”

“Yes. I even—” She cut off. “It’s so tawdry.” She inched closer to Jamie. “The melodrama revolts me. I don’t want that kind of life.”

He knew why. She’d told him of the soap opera of life in Little Havana, where everyone had an opinion on each other’s business, and how she’d escaped by keeping herself aloof and focused.

One of his hands went to her back, sliding up and down in a soothing caress while he struggled with the urge to take her into his arms, to hold her, love her, give her the closeness that she didn’t know she desired. The hell of it was that even if she opened up her heart, the need for intimacy might never include him.

He cleared the knot in his throat. “Then what do you want?”

“I should want an average guy. Someone who spends the night. If he sneaks out the next morning, it’s to bring me back the Sunday paper and coffee and muffins instead of going to the gym to perfect his physique.”

Jamie wondered when she’d realize she’d described him, aside from the part about spending the night. Given her earlier question, maybe she already had. “You’ve thought this out.”

Her head angled back, tilting her face toward his so that he was staring into her eyes. Beautiful olive eyes struck with shards of amber, gleaming like gems he could only admire from afar. Her lips parted.

“This is crazy,” she said. “But ever since the airport, I’ve been wondering if maybe you…”

Jamie’s head roared like a blast furnace. She didn’t mean—she couldn’t be saying—

“You and me,” she blurted. “What if we, you know, tried it out to see? No drama. Just one kiss? In case we’re missing out on something that could be really fantastic.”

He spoke very slowly. “You’re not thinking straight.”

“Straight’s done me no good so far.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Let’s not think about that.” Marissa reached up to brush her knuckles along his jaw. She rubbed, sliding her fingers to his chin, then his lips. Outlining them. “I want to know what it’s like to kiss you.” His lower lip rolled under her caress. “Haven’t you ever wondered…”

He couldn’t deny that. “Hell, yeah,” he said, and suddenly he was kissing her the way he’d dreamed of a thousand times.

Except that he’d made all the right moves in his fantasies. This was real. It was their noses bumping until they got the right angle, it was worrying if he had garlic breath, it was the sudden jolt of electric sensation when their tongues touched, making their teeth clash. She’d opened her mouth before he was prepared.

But it was also Marissa, her body familiar in his arms. The scent of her, rich and arousing. The night air that had seemed so cool had become hot, vibrant with the promise of a glorious discovery.

She moved against him, arching her body so that he felt her breasts, making an urging sound at the back of

her throat—as if he needed to be encouraged. This time he was the one to deepen the kiss when he stroked his tongue inside her mouth.

Marissa pulled back. She looked at him with rounded eyes. “What do you think?”

“I think that was amazing,” he said in a raw whisper, unable to resist bringing his mouth down on hers again. The first kiss had been a shock, a mind-blowing assault on the senses. He wanted to try her again, taste her, with a thinking brain this time.

She resisted for a moment, then gave in with a low, inviting moan. Her lips opened to the first flick of his tongue. Her mouth was hot, salty. And so sweet.

This is right.

His palms stroked up and down her arms before locking on her hips, fingers spreading across her tight little ass and pressing her hips snug against his. Their heights were close, and her legs long enough to make up the small difference. Their bodies were in perfect alignment. All the appropriate parts matched up. The soft weight of her breasts pressed to his chest, the long, lean curves of her waist and hips melding to his lower body, where the hard bulge of his erection sought her warm hollow. He wanted to press further into her, he wanted the hot wet clasp, the intimate connection of a complete joining.

So much for the thinking brain. He was operating on pure animal need.

At first, the small noises of a pedestrian approaching barely penetrated his consciousness. Not until he

felt a body stealthily brush by did he realize that something was wrong.

“Hey, you!” Jamie whirled around, wrenching Marissa out of his arms with more force than he intended. She cried out, stumbling toward the curb as she lost her balance. He turned back to grab her by the elbow, seeing that she was set safely on her feet before he went to confront the stranger.

His instincts had been right. The man had targeted the suitcase on the stoop, crouching low as if he was about to snatch it.

Jamie made a desperate lunge to yank the bag free. Doing so was easier than he’d expected. The thief hadn’t gotten much of a hold.

With a yell, Jamie toppled over backward, the bag clasped in his arms. The other man didn’t make another attempt, only raced off without a backward glance.

Jamie was stunned. Like most New Yorkers, he’d been confronted on the streets by a few crazies. But he’d never experienced a mugging, even in snatch-and-run style.

And so he was surprised by his reaction. Adrenaline had pumped through his body, shooting him full of aggression and bravado. He was a pacifist, and yet suddenly he wanted to fight.

Marissa knelt at his side, filled with feminine concern. “Are you all right? You took a hard fall.”

Jamie put a hand to the gritty sidewalk as he found his breath. “Sure. Are you?”

“Yes. It was only—” She glanced over the empty street. “Only a pitiful attempt at a mugging. Not even an armed one.” She made a dismissive sound, but her voice was shaky. “Takes more ’n that to scare a couple of tough New Yorkers, right?”

Jamie set her suitcase on the sidewalk and jumped to his feet. He was charged, ready to chase down the itchy-fingered stranger. But the would-be mugger had vanished like smoke.

Jamie moved restlessly up and down off the curb, sucking air through his nose. “Did you get a look at him?”

“No. I was trying not to land in the gutter.”

“He wore a hood,” Jamie remembered. “He was about five-eight or nine. Skinny. I didn’t really see his face.”

“Should we call the cops?”

After a moment of consideration, they looked at each other and shrugged. Not worth the time and trouble, especially when the theft hadn’t been successful. “Let’s just get home,” Marissa said with a quiet voice. “This has been a helluva day.”

Of course. She had to be burned out. Jamie wrapped his arms around her. “Poor baby.”

She hugged him tight. “Is this a good idea?”

“What?” He jerked away. Was she afraid he wanted to take up where they’d been interrupted? He did, of course, but that wasn’t his first priority. Only the second through tenth.

“Distracting ourselves.” She averted her face. “Inviting another mugging.”

“Yeah, right. We should go.” God only knew that if he started kissing her again, a tornado could whirl up

around them and he wouldn’t notice until they’d landed in Oz.

He left his arm around her the rest of the way home, whether or not she wanted the protection. She didn’t demur, but stayed tucked under his wing, now and then leaning her head on his shoulder and letting out a very quiet sigh.

He remained hyperalert to every sound and motion up and down the street. His body thrummed with excess energy, but he kept that under wraps as best as he could. Strange how the surging endorphins produced by the theft attempt and their astonishing kisses were so much alike. He suspected that something had been kick-started inside him. And he was damned if he’d go back, even if that were possible.

When they arrived at their brownstone, he took charge with the keys and luggage. “I’m going to collapse,” Marissa announced at her apartment door, forestalling him even before he attempted to get inside.

He tried not to let it bother him that she was so certain about ending their experiment that she’d given him not even the smallest opening to delay. “Let me check the place out,” he said, sliding past her without waiting for permission. What the hell. He turned on lights, glancing into the bath and bedroom, even her closet. Every room was in its usual state—topsy-turvy. Housekeeping was not one of Marissa’s talents.

“Find anything?” she called in a tone that said he was being overprotective.

“Hold on.” He swept aside a lace curtain and tested the window that opened onto the fire escape off the bedroom. More of the lace was draped over the bed. The faded rose wallpaper, white iron bed, scattered clothes, shoes and books gave the bedroom the look of an overturned Victorian wastebasket.

“It pays to be cautious,” he said, leaving the doors open behind him. “You’ve been gone for three days.”

“Is that all?” She blinked at her living room as if it were a street person’s cardboard box. Her shoulders were slumped. “I thought it was longer.”

Marissa rarely drooped. Jamie wanted to bust Paul for doing that to her, but he had to keep it cool or she’d know how deep his feelings truly ran. “You’re done in.”

She took one look at his face and moved away, masking the rebuff by lifting her arms and rubbing at the back of her neck. Avoiding looking at him again.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

He returned a minute later to find her curled up in her comfy armchair, her head tipping over. He dropped her cat into her lap. She said, “Oh-hh, Harry,” and clutched the beloved pet to her chest so gratefully that he couldn’t stay irked by her wordless withdrawal.

“Thank you for taking care of my kitty while I was gone,” she said, practically purring herself as she rubbed cheeks with the blue-eyed Angora. They were a pair— pampered, elegant, aloof, but affectionate under the right circumstances. “You’re too good to us.”

Too good? Jamie shoved his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t touch her.

Too bad.

THREE A.M. on the fire escape outside of the apartment of Marissa Suarez, and Allard was huddled against the cold drip of a misty rain. The shallow warmth of the day had dissipated from the building’s stones hours ago. He huffed a breath into his turned-up collar to warm his face. Patience and precision were a thief’s stock in trade. Acting rashly was never wise.

A droplet fell off the tip of his nose. His mouth puckered. Resorting to an attempted snatch on the street had been a foolish mistake. He’d been seduced by the couple’s distraction into thinking he could slip the amulet from the bag before they realized what was happening.

Flimsy as it was, the plan had almost worked. The alluring White Star had been at his fingertips when Marissa’s boyfriend had torn the bag away.

A switchblade had waited in Allard’s pocket, but he’d chosen to run. Better to escape than to risk a struggle and possible identification. There would be other opportunities.

He shifted into a squat and peered through the window. Dark and quiet inside. Marissa was sprawled on the bed, her white, long-haired cat a huddled lump on her chest. The feline’s eyes shone at Allard, freezing his hand on the windowsill. He hated pets, cats especially. They were unpredictable creatures. One loud meow at the wrong moment and the girl might be jarred out of her sleep.

Allard tilted his head. There was the bag. He’d watched as a lethargic Marissa had lugged the suitcase into the bedroom and dropped it on the floor. He’d been prepared to intervene should she discover the treasure he’d hidden inside, but his luck had held. She hadn’t bothered to unpack. Instead she’d given the thing a kick to shove it under her bed.

One corner stuck out, tempting him.

The window was locked. He was certain that he could get in after a bit of jimmying. Hadn’t he already bypassed high-tech security systems in his quest for the White Star?

But there was the cat.

The damn cat. His nemesis. Allard’s father, a minor thief and total asshole, had taught him that the smallest detail, if overlooked, could ultimately exact the greatest cost. Yet when he’d seen his son’s irrational fear of cats, he’d sneeringly called Jean La Souri Noire—the dark mouse—on their midnight excursions. To this day, he believed cats were bad luck.

The feline watched Allard, twitching its fluffy tail. After a moment of debate, he eased away from the window. For now, the White Star was safe.

Unlike his drunken lout of a father, he was a patient man. He would watch and wait for his next chance and when it came, he would be ready.

Not even the cat would prevent his fated reunion with the amulet.

Someone was breaking in!

Marissa bolted upright from a dense sleep, sending Harry shooting off the bed with his tail upright. The cat yowled and streaked away into the darkness—toward the sound of the front door closing. That was odd, but Marissa didn’t think it through. She was scrabbling over the nightstand to find her phone.

Not there. Not freaking there.

She heard a person moving around in the living room without even trying to be quiet. Marissa swallowed thickly as she slid out of bed. Fear was acrid; her mouth tasted like she’d been chewing on tin foil.

Two crimes within hours. Shocking even for a New Yorker.

A light went on in the other room. Marissa dropped down, crouching behind the far side of the bed. She felt around for a weapon, finding a silk scarf, a flimsy chain belt, a Chinese takeout container that had fallen beneath the bed. Maybe there were chopsticks? Why hadn’t she obeyed her mother, who’d said that the city was dangerous and Marissa must always sleep with a butcher knife under the mattress?

Aha. A shoe. Her fingers closed on a four-inch heel that could serve as a dagger.

She crept toward the door, shoe in hand. Would a spike heel through an eyeball work as a defense? Only in the movies, but maybe she’d gain time to run out the door.

A thud sounded from the other room, a thud she could have sworn was the sound of feet dropping onto the wood coffee table. She’d heard that thud a hundred times when Jamie came over to watch TV.

But he wasn’t out there. Unless…

She remembered how they’d kissed on the street and suddenly her lips became plump and tingly. An

absurd reaction under the circumstances. Granted, Jamie had a key, but he wouldn’t come back—would he?—hoping for…

An early morning booty break-in? Not likely.

Marissa edged out the door, ready to strike even though her confused instincts had taken the fear down a few notches. She knew something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t tell what.

One small lamp was on, leaving the room filled with dusky shadows. She narrowed her eyes. There was a person on the couch. Bent over. Making shuffling noises.

Going through my stuff. Insulted by the invasion of privacy, Marissa raised the shoe above her head.

Silently she stepped within striking distance. Harry sat on the arm of the sofa with his tail curved around his body, blinking at Marissa as if wondering what had taken her so long.

What the…?

The person on the couch was straightening.

“Freeze!” Changing tactics in an instant, Marissa pressed the sharp heel of the shoe to the intruder’s back. “Feel that? That’s a gun that’ll blow a hole straight through your spine.”

3

THE INTRUDER LET OUT a high-pitched yelp. Either his balls had crawled up into his body cavity or he was a woman.

“I said not to move.” Marissa dug the heel deeper.

She looked at Harry, who was calmly washing his face with a paw. Simultaneously, Marissa recognized the thief’s curly blond head. Her remaining fear drained away.

She dropped the shoe. “Shandi?”

The woman corkscrewed around to gape at Marissa, then flopped over on the cushions facedown. “Chh’yah, girl! You scared me to death!”

“I scared you?” Marissa stared down at her former roommate, wondering why she even bothered to be surprised. Shandi Lee was the proverbial bad penny. “I thought I was being burgled.”

Shandi rose up on her elbows. “What are you doing here? You said you were going on vacation for a week.” She was a pretty girl under the glitz, but beginning to look run down from not taking care of herself. A heavy application of lipstick, mascara and eyeliner had melted and smeared, giving her the look of a sad-eyed clown.

“I’m back early. Man troubles.” Marissa crossed her arms. “And you?”

Shandi attempted a chagrined grin, which wasn’t very convincing. Her misdeeds were too frequent to be excused as momentary lapses or bad judgment. “You caught me. Since I knew your apartment was empty, I crashed here after Ming kicked me out.”

“Ming kicked you out?” Oh, hell. Another roommate bites the dust. But Marissa wouldn’t be persuaded to provide shelter. Not again. “What did you do this time?”

“Spent my rent on a Fendi purse. Look at it.” Shandi pointed at the coffee table, where a pink leather pouch perched atop the stack of fashion magazines, newspapers and junk mail. “It’s adorable. So worth it.”

“The purse is cute,” Marissa conceded, adding quickly, “but you can’t stay.” The roommate before Ming had given Shandi the boot after a raucous New Year’s Eve party had resulted in three arrests, two infidelities and one hole punched in the wall. That time, Shandi had bunked on Marissa’s couch for a week.

“Aw, c’mon. Don’t make me pack up.” A pair of Chinese silk pajamas spilled from the open tote bag on the floor. “I’m ready to pass out.”

Harry tightroped the back of the couch to press against Marissa’s arm. She rubbed the cat’s head, weakening. Shandi was like an alley cat—superannoying when yowling at night, but scruffily irresistible when she meowed on the doorstep in the rain. “Okay, you can stay until morning. But you have to find another place tomorrow, okay?”

Shandi flopped again. “I could ask Jamie to lend me a corner.”

Marissa stiffened, but she kept her voice casual. “You could.”

Shandi’s visible eye opened. “If I can get past you.”

“I’m not his bodyguard.”

Snort. “You’re each other’s bodyguards. I wish you two would get over yourselves and just do it already.”

“Let’s not get into that again.” Marissa resisted, then couldn’t help herself. “We’re dogs and cats.”

Shandi yawned. “Like that matters when you know he wants to ride you like a mustang.”

Marissa didn’t reply. The kisses with Jamie remained a bright neon sign at the back of her brain. ¡Dios! Middle of the night and she was lit up like Broadway. If the mugger hadn’t knocked some sense into her earlier, there was no telling how naked they’d be right now.

But she didn’t want that…not really. Her resolution was to make no more mistakes. Fooling around with Jamie could be a huge one.

Shandi was smirking into an Ultrasuede sofa pillow. To avoid another bawdy comment, Marissa went to the linen closet and selected a pair of sheets, a blanket and an extra pillow from the jumbled contents. She came back and dropped them on her guest’s backside. Not up to Martha Stewart’s standards, but then, Marissa hadn’t sent out any engraved invitations. “At least take off your shoes.”

Shandi lifted her feet up and toed off her Reebok sneakers. The shoes must have weighed five pounds. They hit the floor like andirons. Better weapons than the sandals, especially when inserted into an open mouth.

Making a note of that, Marissa chirped to Harry and walked back to her bedroom. She softened her tone. “Good night, Shandi.” Then couldn’t resist. “Please don’t get makeup on my pillows.”

She left the door open a couple of inches for the cat and crawled into bed. The Habaneros T-shirt she slept in rode up around her waist and she pulled it down, humping her hips a couple of times. The bedsprings squeaked.

In a voice filled with deviltry, Shandi called, “Ride me, big Sheldon,” quoting from When Harry Met Sally, one of their favorite movie night chick flicks.

“Oh, just shut up,” Marissa murmured. She was usually quicker with a comeback, but the skin on her thighs had jumped to her own touch and she was busy thinking how she would have reacted if Jamie had been waiting in bed for her. Gone on a bucking bareback ride? With her platonic pal?

One day ago that notion would have been laughable. Now it wasn’t. And what had changed? There was her breakup, but she’d lost boyfriends before and hadn’t turned to Jamie except for brotherly comfort. Maybe she was only having an unusually adverse reaction to a bad vacation, complicated by loss of sleep.

She’d be sane by morning.

Instead of wanting Jamie like crazy.

“GIVE ME BACK MY KEY,” was the first thing Marissa said the next morning when she passed through the living room to get to the galley kitchen, her eyes crusted into slits. If she didn’t take a firm stance from the start, she’d find herself giving in, one night at a time, until she had herself a new roommate.

Her resolve was reinforced when she stumbled over the junk that had been scattered throughout the room. Shandi’s worldly possessions—basically a wardrobe, a collection of shoe boxes, one packet of important papers like tax returns and inscribed cocktail napkins and the toolbox that held an oversize makeup kit. Marissa shoved the meager belongings into one big pile. Harry danced ahead, meowing for Fancy Feast.

Shandi muttered something unintelligible and pulled the blanket over her head.

In the kitchen Marissa popped the top of a can of turkey giblets, filled the cat’s dish, then got the arabica dark roast coffee beans from the expanding igloo of her freezer. She made the grinder sing like a swarm of killer bees.

Shandi got the hint and staggered to her feet, saying, “Coffee. Need coffee,” as she lurched toward the bathroom.

“You’re going in the wrong direction.” Marissa gave the beans one more good buzz. The rich smell was waking her up too. Soon the past thirty-two hours would make sense.

She was picking at the corners of her eyes, waiting for the coffee to brew and going over all the reasons that Jamie was no good for her as a lover even though he was nothing but good as a friend, when the doorbell rang.

Jamie’s eye met hers in the peephole. Marissa wanted to run away back to the bedroom and execute a frantic

twenty-second toilette, but Shandi was occupying the bathroom. Acting differently around Jamie would only call attention to how really different Marissa felt since The Kiss.

She scrubbed her hands on her shirt and opened the door, glad she’d pulled on a pair of yoga pants.

A wet nose thrust into her crotch. “Sally!” Jamie tugged at his dog’s leash. He offered an easy smile that lessened Marissa’s self-consciousness. “Sorry. I was taking the beast out for a run at George’s when I heard your coffee grinder.”

“I’m still waking up.”

His face changed when he heard the shower. “You have company.”

Marissa weighed her options. She could tell him Paul had followed her home, they’d made up and that would be that. Except that wouldn’t be that. Anyone who’d ever seen a romantic comedy starring a Hollywood It girl knew “that” only led to more complications.

Besides, she couldn’t lie to Jamie.

Yeah, except about your feelings.

“Shandi showed up after the bars closed, looking for a soft place to land.” Marissa leaned in. “Start thinking of your excuses now.”

Jamie pulled back. “Uh, the Village chapter of the Angelina Jolie fan club is meeting in my apartment.”

“Not bad, but I have lice.”

“Then I’m fumigating for cockroaches.”

“Spring-cleaning,” Marissa said, sure she’d trumped him since she hadn’t spring-cleaned since forever.

“Nuclear bomb testing.”

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Damn. “Come in for coffee,” she said, leaving the door open and going back to the kitchen. “But this doesn’t mean you win.”

“Don’t fight over me now.” Shandi had come out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Her mop of wild curls dripped down her back. “You can split me like my parents did.” She gave Jamie’s golden retriever a pat. “Daddy, will you buy me a pony?”

He put up his hands, the leash twisting around his wrist. “Sorry. I don’t have room for either of you. But if I get a choice, I’d rather muck out after the pony.”

“Sheesh. I didn’t even ask yet.” Shandi dropped onto the couch, pouting. “You two are giving me a complex.”

“That’ll be the day,” Marissa said from the kitchen doorway. Shandi was a creature of airy confidence. She worked off and on as a freelance makeup artist, which meant that she was either flush with funds or flat broke. The state of her finances never bothered her. She lived her life on whims and luck, both good and bad. Unfortunately her morals tended to be as flexible as her address.

“I have a job all next week,” Shandi announced. “I’m doing makeup for an episode of ‘Law & Order.’ And I met a guy last night who’s an art director at an ad agency. He loved my book.”

“Good. You’ll be able to pay for a new room.”

“Something really swank. But in the meantime…” Shandi made big eyes at them, looking wan without her makeup.

“No,” Marissa and Jamie said in unison. They eyed each other, sending signals. The only way to stand firm was to make a run for it.

Jamie turned to go. “I have to walk the beast before her bladder bursts. Want to—”

“Yes, I’ll come.” Marissa grabbed her keys out of the straw purse and Shandi’s shoes off the floor. She flew out the door, right behind Jamie. “Lock up when you go,” she called over her shoulder before slamming the door.

She stabbed her feet into the one-size-too-small shoes. Jamie took her arm. “Let’s hurry before she follows us.”

“This is so undignified,” Marissa said as they hit the street. “We’d better not come across anyone I know. I haven’t taken a shower. I’m not even wearing a bra.”

His gaze skipped to her boobs. “Um, nice.”

“‘Um, nice’?” She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them. “Since when?”

“Nice isn’t flattering?”

“No, it’s— I meant, since when did you notice?”

“I’ve always noticed when you’re not wearing a bra.”

“Oh.” She counted back in her head and figured that must be about a couple hundred occasions, adding in all their lazy Sundays when she didn’t get out of her pajamas till noon. Going without a bra wasn’t something she spent a lot of time contemplating. She was small on top and liked it that way.

So did Jamie? Wow.

They moved off down the street, heading toward George’s, the large-dog run at Washington Square Park. Her heart was beating like a bongo drum. “How come you never said anything?”

Jamie took a long time answering. “How would you have reacted if I’d mentioned that you look sexy with a little jiggle and perkiness under your shirt? Or if I’d confessed that I steal looks through the gap every time you miss a button?”

Marissa bit the inside of her cheek. “I might have been more careful.”

She should feel mortified. Or at least insulted. But the knowledge that he’d been looking at her that way, noticing her body and maybe lusting after her hard-core, was not as weird as she’d once have expected. Ever since The Kiss—

No, her feelings had started even before that. Ever since she’d met him at the airport, there was a difference between them.

A difference that made heat crawl through her veins every time she thought about him touching her.

“I’m teasing,” Jamie said in a flat voice, his gaze pinned to the dog’s flopping ears.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She sensed he was only trying to placate her. “Why don’t I believe you?”

He grinned sheepishly, looking a little more like the boy next door who kept her safe instead of off center. “Because when it comes to ogling the naughty bits of naked women, guys will always lie if they think they can get away with it.”

“I didn’t used to think of you as that kind of guy.”

“Then what am I? A eunuch?”

“Of course not! I know you’re, well, virile. In fact, you’re very attractive. Just not—”

“Just not attractive to you?” They’d slowed. His level, brooding stare was unnerving. But hot. Her cheeks flared. Forget the boy next door. He was giving off heavy-duty, man-in-your-bed vibes.

The old Jamie would have cracked a joke to distract them, but this one wasn’t backing down. He said, without a trace of embarrassment, “That’s not what your mouth was telling me last night.”

She gulped. “I wondered how long it’d take for us to go there.” She glanced around at the street, busy with the morning’s comings and goings. The dog walkers were out in full force: slender gay men matched with their greyhounds, high-heeled women toting pocket pooches, family guys leashed to a selection of setters and retrievers. “Huh. Not long. We haven’t even made it off the block.”

Jamie let Sally pull him forward to the corner, the dog’s nose quivering as she scented the bursting spring foliage at the park. “You want to pretend it didn’t happen?”

“I want us not to change. Not to make one kiss—”

Jamie’s new triple-X adult eyes knifed at her.

“Okay, a few kisses. Hot ones, even.” She took a steadying breath and started again. “Not to make a few hot kisses into some big drama that wrecks our friendship.”

“Like I said, you want to forget it happened.” Suddenly he sounded sad. Marissa’s stomach flipped. “Might as well forget what I said about your breasts, too.”

“Whatever. Really, it’s no big deal if you snuck a few peeks.” She looked down the neck hole of her T-shirt. “Breasts are breasts, unless they’re Pamela Anderson’s. So what if you’ve seen mine. I’m not shy.”

Jamie made a motion as if he intended to get another look, and she grabbed at the loose fabric, stretching the shirt taut across her front. Her nipples pressed sharp little points against the thin cotton.

The crosswalk light switched. The other pedestrians moved off quickly. Jamie didn’t budge an inch. Sally whimpered, tugging at the leash.

“Okay,” Marissa said. “You made your point. We can’t put the genie back in the bottle. But I’m not ready to deal with this.” She made a motion to reach for his hand, then pulled back. “Please, let’s go along as usual for a few days. I just got home. I’m wearing Shandi’s shoes.”

She put a hand up to flip back her hair and her fingers got stuck on a snarl. She never went out in such a state of disarray. Even going to the gym required a certain look with a coordinated outfit and her hair in a braided knot. “I’m all out of sorts.”

“I understand,” Jamie said. Grudgingly, for him. “But I’m not letting this drop for good,” he added because he couldn’t seem to help it. “You should think about the possibility that our friendship won’t be ruined if we become lovers. It might even be enhanced.”

“You’re such an optimist.”

He smiled. “And that’s a good thing.”

“I’ll think about it. But I can’t make a decision so fast.” Even though she always made decisions fast. “Will you wait? A reprieve is all I need to get my head straight.”

Man and dog cocked their heads at her.

“All I need,” she repeated, hoping that he couldn’t see that her heart was saying something more.

All I need is you.

“That and breakfast.” Jamie took her hand and turned Sally loose. The dog bounded into the crosswalk, feathered tail waving like a semaphore. They jogged after her, stretching their legs, and the tension inside Marissa finally let go.

“DO YOU THINK she’s gone?”

“I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

Jamie angled his head toward their brownstone. “I hear music. Maroon Five.”

“Then she’s still there. Damn.” Marissa slowly climbed the steps. “I really don’t want a roommate again. It’s been nice, having the place to myself. My first time completely on my own.”

Jamie followed. She’d talked often about her family in Miami, so he knew that she’d grown up poor but ambitious, sharing a tiny bedroom with her sister, dreaming of life in the big city. “I don’t want her, either, but if I have to take the bullet, I will.”

“No!” Marissa looked startled by her own vehemence. “That is, I don’t expect you to sacrifice yourself for my sake. She’ll find a place.”

He weighed the possibilities. “Are you worried that we’d sleep together?”

“Who? Us?”

He could only hope. “Me and Shandi.”

Cool now, Marissa raised an eyebrow. “Would you?”

“Hell, no.” When he ran into Shandi these days, he couldn’t remember why he’d ever been involved with her. Thinking about it, he saw that she’d dazzled him with her freewheeling zest, somewhat like Marissa. Shandi Lee was an experience. Three years ago, he’d still been new to the city lifestyle, recently removed from a comfortable suburban home. He had commuted to college, then put in a short stint at a small-town paper before realizing that he’d become too settled.

But he’d progressed since his first days in the city. He’d become a lot smarter about what kind of woman he wanted in his life.

“You liked her once,” Marissa ventured.

“Uh, I still do.” Even if he didn’t entirely trust her.

“You liked her in a romantic way.”

“Well, you were with…what was his name?”

“Ivan. He’s a cancer researcher now, you know, at Sloan Kettering.”

“Impressive.” Marissa’s men usually had careers of importance or wealth. Jamie would never accomplish either with his average-paying job at the Village Observer. His big attempt at ambition was ghost-writing a biography with a rock legend, a project that had hit a major pothole when he’d realized the man was functionally illiterate.

Marissa had unlocked the front door. She turned her eyes on him. They were clear and unblinking, framed in a fringe of dark lashes. “No, I don’t want Ivan back.”

“And I don’t want Shandi.”

“Then we’re agreed. We’ll all be just friends.”

Little did she know. After Sally’s sojourn in the park, they’d gone to Blue Dog’s Café, a popular coffeehouse with huge breakfasts and free doggie biscuits at the counter. Marissa had excused herself and come back with her hair finger-combed and the baggy T-shirt knotted above her belly button. Without makeup, her face glowed. Her bare lips were full and soft. He’d found it tough to pull his gaze away, although her natural beauty was daunting. She could emerge from a ragbag and still pull herself together, while he counted himself dapper if he remembered to put on an unwrinkled shirt.

Over a tofu and spinach scramble, she’d continued with her insistence that this wasn’t the right time to start up anything between them. He’d agreed against every instinct, silently planning to bide his time until she adjusted to the idea.

The situation might have seemed hopeless. Except that he’d been struck by the way she’d avoided touching him. At first. And proof that she was as aware of him as he was of her.

The dog, who’d been sniffing at a concrete urn holding only the stiff brown stalks of last year’s planting, suddenly gave one short sharp bark. She shot to the end of the leash. The jolt almost jerked Jamie off his feet. “Sally! Quiet.”

Marissa stood at his shoulder. “What is it?”

“There must have been a cat.” He looked across the street. A woman pushed a stroller. A man in an ill-fitting business suit leaned against a mailbox, head lowered while he lit a cigarette. Sally growled low in her throat.

“I’m jumpy since the mugging attempt,” said Marissa. “I even thought Shandi was a burglar.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.” Jamie squeezed her hand.

The gesture was innocent, then not. They realized their proximity at the same moment. His gaze caught on her lips. She dented the lower one with her teeth. They leaned even closer, inches away, holding their breath—

“Hey, hey, hey! What’s going on here?” called a voice from above. Shandi hung out of the third-floor window. “Break it up, you guys.”

Marissa pulled away, her cheeks almost as pink as her lips.

“Would you mind answering your cell?” Cavalierly, Shandi tossed the phone out the window. “It’s driving me up the wall, ringing every ten minutes.”

Jamie made a lunge and caught the phone. He handed it to Marissa. “I thought it was switched off,” she said when the shrill ringer went off.

Shandi grimaced. “Yeah, well, I had to make a few calls and my minutes are running short. Quid pro quo— you stole my shoes.”

“Great.” Marissa flipped the phone open and said a wary “Hello?”

A deep voice immediately began fast talking on the other end of the connection. Jamie knew by the way her face sobered that the caller was Paul Beckwith. What he couldn’t tell was whether she’d wanted to hear from him.

4

“I’M HANGING UP now, Paul.”

He continued as if Marissa hadn’t spoken, essentially pleading for her forgiveness even though he talked around any actual admission of wrongdoing. Why hadn’t she ever noticed that he was as slick as a politician—or the stereotypical smarmy lawyer? Especially when cornered.

She broke in. “All I hear is yammering that doesn’t mean a thing to me. I’m hanging up.”

“First say that you’re not angry with me.”

“Fine. I was angry, but I’m not anymore. Okay?”

“You still sound angry.” Paul inhaled as if he were going to relaunch, but maybe he’d finally run out of words because he actually waited for her reply.

Marissa sat on her bed cross-legged. Shandi was in the kitchen, making pancakes in animal shapes. With a nonchalant shrug, Jamie had signaled to Marissa that he was going upstairs to his place. She’d been relieved that he didn’t feel the need to stick around and coach her on her responses to Paul—while listening in—but another part of her kind of wished that he was the type of guy who fought for what he wanted.

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