INNUENDO
Crystal Green

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

To Joan, my sister-in-law, for providing a bit

of her single life as story fodder,

and to Mica and Nancy, partners in creativity.

Here’s to the creation of the Sisters of the Booty Call!

Contents

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

Epilogue

About the Author

Coming Next Month

1

“YOU, MS. TAMARA CLARKSON, need some booty.”

At the cheeky words, Tam laughed and turned away from her computer keyboard. Normally she used it to enter information into the Dillard Marketing database as part of her temporary gig. But right now there were no assignments on her desk, so she’d been covertly scribbling down a new personal budget that she would never complete anyway, what with her being the mistress of beginning-many-projects-but-hardly-ever-finishing-them.

The speaker, Danica Langston, was wiggling her eyebrows in mischief while leaning against Tam’s cubicle. The mild sunshine of a San Francisco September afternoon breathed through the windows and dusted her coworker’s dark skin.

This was Tam’s first temp job in her new home city. Since being assigned to Dillard two weeks ago, she and Danica had become friends, mainly by bonding through the curse of being single women in the city. Over lunch, they would complain about men and then look out the window to people-watch the nine-to-fivers strolling along the sidewalks of the Financial District. It was a daily ritual—except for Mondays. Danica never failed to disappear that day, always claiming an “essential meeting.”

So Danica’s next words came as a surprise. “Ready for a lunch break?”

Tam raised an eyebrow. “No meeting today?”

“Sure, but you’re coming with me this time.” Danica motioned for Tam to get out of her chair. “I’ve got some friends I want you to meet. Then we’ll grab some quick grub afterward and bring it back up here.”

From booty to networking. What a segue. Intrigued, Tam closed her computer program and gathered her purse. She hadn’t met many people in the city yet, so this was a good opportunity. Aside from the anything-but-shy Danica, the Dillard dungeon didn’t seem to hire many outgoing individuals.

Yup, it was tough to make friends here. Bummer, since all Tam wanted to do since she’d moved to San Fran from her family home in Vegas was to start fresh. Here, in a city teeming with good vibes, she could finally ditch all the temp work and find the job she was meant for. Then she could earn enough money for a place of her very own—one she could decorate and celebrate her freedom in. And Tam was optimistic that she would accomplish at least the job part by next summer.

Freedom, she thought. San Francisco, with its hippy history and open-air poetry, was just the place to discover it.

Liar, said a little voice inside. You want security. You can tell yourself you’d love to be free all you want, but it isn’t the answer. You try to crave it because you think it means you don’t need anyone, and that way you’ll never feel rejection again.

Freedom is just a lie for you….

Tam knew that voice. It was the whisper of a hurt child who’d been shoved deep down where she could never be wounded again by reminders of her parents’ divorce. She folded the voice to the back of her mind where it couldn’t be heard anymore, and instead donned a perky smile for Danica. It worked every time to fool the world—to fool herself, too.

“So…meetings,” she said as they left the office. “Are you in some kind of social club?”

“You could say that.”

They caught the elevator, finding themselves alone. With a mysterious grin, Danica pressed the second-floor button, then leaned toward the shiny brass panel and primped, running her manicured hands over the short, dark pageboy cut she wore.

But Tam didn’t look in the makeshift mirror. She knew exactly what she would see: a longer-than-average face framed by shoulder-length, thick, curly hair, light brown bordering on mousy. She would also find lips that were usually spread into a smile, and a pair of aquamarine eyes: the kind of color that, normally, you could only cheat into existence with contacts.

The shape of her face—and her long nose—had bothered her ever since a pivotal moment in middle school when Jimmy Denning had poked fun at them, calling her “horse face,” causing an entire lunch table full of kids to laugh at her. Since her parents’ divorce had made her sensitive to rejection, she’d taken it hard and to heart. But she hadn’t taken it lying down; no, from that point on, she’d tried to distract everyone from noticing her face with a flamboyant wardrobe and a sunny personality, and it had worked. If everyone concentrated on her surface, they wouldn’t bother with what lay beneath, she reasoned.

It was her safety net—one she fantasized about leaving behind. And if San Francisco could change her into a free spirit with no worries, then maybe she’d finally be able to just be herself.

At least, she hoped so.

Tam plucked at her intricate, bold, Haight-Ashbury vintage skirt, getting anxious about this meeting of Danica’s. With any luck, everyone’s attention would be drawn to her clothes, not her face. But if they did focus in on her mug? Yup, she’d be smiling.

And hoping they wouldn’t look past that.

She turned to her friend. “I guess maybe all those comments I made at lunch about meeting men in a new town painted me as a desperate nympho or something?”

Danica laughed. “No more than the rest of us.”

The rest of…who, exactly?

The elevator arrived at floor two, where the scent of herbs and perfumed lotions welcomed them. They stepped off, headed to a day spa called Indulge, then into a restroom at the end of the hall.

“A bathroom?” Not exactly The Ritz.

“Privacy and proximity for our secret meetings.” Smiling, Danica placed her hand against the door. “Now, you don’t need to take part in anything today, all right?”

“You’re killin’ me. What’s going on?”

The other woman bit her lower lip, showing dimples. Then she said cryptically, “Just the single-girl blues, baby, the single-girl blues.”

Tam started to ask for more of an answer, but her friend had already opened the door.

Single-girl blues. Tam sure had a catalog of those. By choice, she hadn’t dated in about a year. Even at twenty-five, she was bone weary of failure, of going on two dates with a guy then having him lose interest. She didn’t have the energy to try again right now. Besides, her new start here in San Fran didn’t include getting a boyfriend. Yet. If ever.

But…okay, yeah. Tam would admit that, truthfully, she was lonely. That trying just one more time, if she could talk herself into it, might mean finally tripping over a decent guy. Yet “one more time” never seemed to happen.

As they entered, Tam saw that there was a tiny waiting area that opened into two directions: toilets to the right and a lounge to the left. There, among the flower-scented dignity of potted plants, silk flowers, burgundy carpet, chintz upholstery and a gilded mirror, waited a group of women. Dressed in business clothes, they sat on the couch and matching chairs, leafing through the estrogen-inspired magazines on the mahogany coffee table, chatting and laughing.

On the middle of the table stood a glass vase, its etched designs catching the soft light, making it glimmer. Shaped like a cowboy boot, it held, not flowers, but a bevy of small white papers.

Business cards?

“Hey!” Danica said to the group.

Everyone jovially said hello, not seeming to mind that Tam was in their midst. A sultry woman with black hair and equally dark eyes, her long body draped like silk over the couch, welcomed the new arrivals in a voice that was polished with the hint of an exotic accent. Tam knew her name: Mercedes Estevez, the owner of Indulge.

Self-conscious in the face of this woman’s beauty, Tam went back to fidgeting with her skirt, expertly drawing Mercedes’s attention away from her crazy hair, her homely face. Today she sported a shimmering silk blouse rolled to the elbows; it complemented her skirt and was accentuated by a long, delicate silver chain that draped over her hips like webbing. Earrings that dangled like rainfall, plus matching pumps that had chains as straps, rounded out her artful fashion arrangement.

“Everyone,” Danica said, “this is who I told you about last week. Tamara Clarkson.”

“Welcome to our Sisters of the Booty Call meeting,” said a woman with leopard-skin pumps and spiked brown hair.

When she motioned toward the glass boot vase, everyone laughed. Tam guessed it was because of her “Oh, that’s what Danica meant by booty?” look. She pumped up her smile wattage.

Another woman shook Tam’s hand, her green eyes friendly. She wore her blond hair in short, chin-length layers—a model of urban hip. “I’m Milla Page. Tenth floor, from that tiny office of Web geeks.”

“MatchMeUpOnline.com is one of your sites,” Tam said, shaking Milla’s hand in return. She was a fan of the site, with its club, restaurant and hot spot suggestions. Perfect for singles planning a night out.

As the other women greeted her and introduced themselves, Tam settled into a seat, meeting Danica’s gaze. Her coworker’s eyes were hopeful, as if she was holding her breath that Tam would fit into the crowd.

Heck, Tam was wondering how it would go, too. But…so far so good, right?

As other women entered and made themselves comfortable, they all small-talked, drawing a few personal details out of Tam. She’d graduated from UNLV over three years ago. She’d become a perpetual temporary worker until she could find the job of all jobs because she wasn’t about to settle for anything less, like the one she had at Dillard Marketing. Her most recent noteworthy relationship had been one year ago, lasting an amazing two months….

When the women seemed surprised at Tam’s lack of a love life, she quickly added that she was a commitmentphobe. True, it was a simplified explanation for her much deeper issues, but they bought it.

In the middle of it all, The Boot waited, gleaming under the light.

A woman who’d introduced herself as Julia Nguyen caught Tam’s curious glance.

“Shall we?” she asked the others, gesturing toward the vase and then Tam. She was slender and sat upright in her chair, her speech flavored with the cadence of Little Saigon.

“I think she’s perfect for us,” said the woman with leopard-print pumps.

Before Tam could even smile in response, Danica bounded to her side, taking a seat on the arm of the couch. “Great!” Glowing, she turned to Tam. “Just promise one thing—that you won’t breathe a word about our Monday meetings outside this lounge. That’s a requirement.”

Bursting at the seams for answers, Tam nodded.

“We don’t bring our office work in here, and we don’t bring what goes on in here to the office,” said Julia Nguyen, clearly the group taskmaster.

“Got it.” Tam glanced around the room. “So why’s there a glass boot on the table, and why is it full of business cards?”

A regally husky voice behind Tam spoke up. “I’ll just make this long story short, if you girls don’t mind.”

Tam’s attention swiveled to a woman with platinum ringlets who leaned against the wall, one long leg crossed over the other, arms loosely folded over her chest. She’d already introduced herself as Pamela Hoff. Statuesque and lean, she was the queen of the lounge.

When she caught Tam’s eye, she grinned, eyebrows arching devilishly as she leaned forward. Without even a word, it was obvious that this was a tale the lady loved to tell.

“This all officially started when I went out with a man who was some kind of urban cowboy—I mean, imagine a guy from Detroit dressed in a bolo and a Shady Brady who uses a Roy Rogers lighter and talks like John Wayne. A real charmer who kept spitting tobacco into his champagne glass like it was no huge breach of social etiquette. And that’s when it hit me.” She held up her hands in a motion of epiphany. “I couldn’t take the disappointments anymore. So I told the guy that I wasn’t going to be around for a second date, then went home and made serious plans to go celibate.”

Tam could pretty much relate to that.

The woman with the leopard-print pumps snorted in patent disbelief. Teena. Yeah, that was her name. Fifteenth floor financial consultant. She’d already spelled “T-e-e-n-a” for Tam in her Southern-fried accent.

“Really, Teena, I was this close.” Pamela measured a tiny space between her thumb and forefinger. “Then the guy started calling me, as if our date had gone really well and he couldn’t catch a clue even if it was running straight at him. That was the final straw. I knew I wouldn’t last another second dating in this city if this was how it was going to go every time. I felt like I had no control anymore. So I took it back. When he sent me flowers and asked me out yet again, I responded in the only way he’d understand.”

In her lush accent, Mercedes Estevez pointed to the glass vase and said, “When he showed up at the office to see if she’d gotten the flowers…”

Everyone but Tam joined in, like it was a communal punchline. “She gave him the boot.”

They all laughed together.

“He just wasn’t getting the hint over the phone,” Pamela continued, so energized by her story that she’d pushed away from the wall, eyes sparkling and voice raised. “So I tucked his posies into the waistband of his Wrangler jeans and followed them up with this vase full of water to cool off—” her hands searched for words in the air.

“—his little cowpoke?” Teena provided.

Tam couldn’t help laughing along with everyone. A fun crowd, she thought, thinking it was good to be a part of one. For the first time, she had an inkling of what it would be like to be among her own kind.

“From that point on,” Danica added, “Pamela created a sort of dating service.” She pulled a card out of her blouse pocket. “Every week, we meet here to pool resources. You know how you go to a bar or a social event and you hit it off with a guy? He usually gives you his business card. Well, we’re putting them to good use now. If I meet a man and I know that he isn’t quite my cup of java but he still seems like a good catch, I accept his card, then write a note on the back—‘Great sense of humor, but I am morally opposed to men wearing Bugs Bunny ties.’ That sort of thing. Then I come to work on Monday—” Danica deposited her card in the vase “—put the card I acquired in The Boot, then draw a different one for me. If I like the description of the man, I call the number and yadadee, yadadoo.”

A long-haired brunette with a name Tam couldn’t recall picked up the vase and started to mix the cards lottery-style while Teena jumped in.

“We’ve pretty much screened the men for each other. It’s not a perfect system—sometimes a creep or two slimes through the cracks—but they always make for a good Monday story.”

Pamela’s voice rang out again. “And the beauty of it is that you don’t need to go into it thinking you’ll end up with this man forever.” She went back to her stance against the wall, folding her arms across her chest again. “I sure as hell don’t.”

Tam didn’t really know what to say or if this was even something she should consider taking part in. It was exciting to have a vaseful of opportunity within reach…but daunting. It’d been so long since she’d been out in the dating world. Did she even have social skills anymore?

God, she wasn’t sure. It was nice that they’d decided she was the perfect candidate, but none of them had any idea just how exhausted Tam was, just how many guys she’d tried to connect with and failed. To complicate matters, the failures were likely caused by her sabotaging the relationships before the men could abandon her.

She thought about the last pseudo-affair: John Yarborough. They’d go out for a movie and dinner, get it on, then take up where they’d left off the next weekend. The thing was, their interaction had never gone anywhere beyond the sex-and-cinema nights.

What was it about her that made people—men, her own mother—want to leave?

No matter, she thought. She’d done everything she could to protect herself from ever hurting again: taking jobs as a temp, dating a chain of guys who, in retrospect, showed no inkling of constancy….

Yet something Pamela had said stuck with Tam.

The beauty of it is that you don’t need to go into it thinking you’ll end up with this man forever.

They made it sound so easy, as if she had control over what could happen.

“Listen,” Danica said, sympathy in her gaze. “If you don’t want to do it, don’t. But I know you’re ready for this. It’s just a way to find a good time and get to know more people. Who knows? You could meet your best guy friend out there. And you can trust the recommendation of every woman here. We’re like you—decent, hardworking…a little horny.”

Echoes of amused agreement sounded throughout the room, accompanied by a couple of encouraging looks directed at Tam.

The Boot was placed back on the table.

“Why don’t you sit back and watch how it works?” Teena said. “Then you can decide if it’s what you want.”

While Tam listened as the women began their ritual by sharing their dating adventures from over the weekend, she wished she could tell them that she would give anything if they could guarantee a man who treated her as naturally and nicely as they had. A man who would allow her to finally be that footloose-and-fancy-free woman who was in charge of her own destiny and feelings, a woman who did more than just dress the part. He didn’t have to be her soul mate—jeez, she’d prefer that he wasn’t at this point, because she wasn’t ready to settle down—just a playmate would be nice.

Yeah, she thought, warming up to the idea. A light, casual thing. A baby step. She still didn’t have the energy to try for anything more yet. Not until she’d accomplished her goal of finding herself.

As the conversation continued, the women’s stories ranged from sad to optimistic to funny. A few women, including Julia Nguyen, had even planned for second dates this weekend with the same guys.

All too soon, it was time to draw from the vase. Tam held her breath as Danica went first.

Her coworker held the card up to her face; she’d left her reading glasses in the office. Squinting, she said, “Dana Didrickson, attorney at law.”

“Oooo,” Teena said. “That was mine!”

Danica lowered the card. “He’s got a girl’s name.”

“Read my comment, would you?”

Squinting again, Danica continued. “‘Polite, smart, witty, but might need a woman who is up to the challenge of dragging him away from the office.’”

Teena was shaking her finger in the air. “He’s a good one, but I’ve had my fill of workaholics.”

Tam glanced at her lap. She understood Teena all too well. Her own dad had lapsed into the office disease after divorcing her mom. True, he’d still showered Tam with affection, usually in the form of money, and he’d petitioned for custody—and won—but that didn’t mean life without him at the dinner table every night was easy.

Danica had popped to her feet, a bundle of energy. “I’m up for a challenge, baby. Bring him on!”

To applause, Teena happily went on to describe the attorney’s physical pluses while another woman drew from the vase. Three more plucked business cards out of The Boot, too, before it was Tam’s turn.

“Last draw today,” Julia Nguyen said. “Tamara, you can take a card and put it back during the week, if you want. We always keep The Boot on the table, okay?”

“Just go for it,” Milla Page said, smiling at her from across the room.

“What can it hurt?” added Mercedes Estevez.

Danica gave Tam a supportive nudge.

New friends, new experiences, a way to get out of the house, maybe even an entertaining time with someone….

What the hell.

Taking a deep breath, Tam stuck her hand inside the vase, grappled around, then came out with a card.

“Julia Nguyen?” Tam said, confused at seeing the woman’s name embossed on the thick paper.

“I had to use my own business card,” she said, clearly excited to have her recommended man in the spotlight. “Turn it over for my note.”

Tam did, hardly surprised to find an organized bulleted list of attributes. She read them out loud. “‘Gorgeous gray-blue eyes. Charmer. Dark hair that curls at the ends. Sexy. Waiter. Free spirit.’”

Free spirit. Could he show her the way? Tam’s pulse started to thump.

“He was young,” Julia said. “Late twenties, I think, and not what you would call successful yet. He’s a waiter, but talked about owning his own place a lot. When I saw that he didn’t have a card, that told me where he is in life, and it’s not where I need a man to be. Still, very, very—”

Teena interrupted. “She wouldn’t throw him outta bed for eatin’ crackers.”

Bumpity-bump. Tam’s heart wouldn’t shut up.

She would be in charge of this one, right? If she could just go into it with no expectations, she could relax and have a little fun.

What did she have to lose?

She glanced at the handwritten name and number on the card: “Kyle Sullivan. Work number: 555-8375.”

Her baby step into freedom.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, a hop skip and a jump away in Union Square, Murphy Sullivan sat at a table in Amidala, the hottest new restaurant from Chef Miike. Known for his experimental Japanese-French fusion dishes, the chef had a cooking show on The Food Channel as well as an avid following of tourists and locals alike. The menu was cutting edge and so was the decor: dark, shiny, modern furniture with avant-garde paintings and sculptures. The main dining room was tinted with chic Blade Runner-style touches, the bar lit by low, soft-blue lighting.

Now, an hour before opening, Murphy thought the clientele wouldn’t have recognized the atmosphere. Instead of seeing waiters, busboys and bartenders shined to a polish in their white jackets and black ties, they would’ve found a group of loud, raucous poker enthusiasts gathered around a linen-clad table, shouting and joking with each other. This was the time to let go—the hour before the sun began to set and the jackets would have to be buttoned. This was the time for the boys to be boys and not automatons who existed to serve.

“Well, kiss my ass!” one of the waiters yelled to the rest of the table as he slammed down his cards. “Full house!”

Murphy, the head bartender here, glanced up from the law brief he’d brought with him. He was proofing it for his day job clerking at his cousin’s firm of Doyle, Flynn and Sullivan—not that it did much good in this racket.

“You lookin’ over here, Murph?” the waiter with the winning hand asked, his black hair ruffled and his gray-blue eyes wide and teasing. Murphy’s cousin, Kyle. “I just leveled these kids. How about you come on over here to get some of that?”

Grinning, Murphy leaned back in his chair, in no hurry to move, letting his laconic attitude speak for itself.

“Aw, come on.” Kyle gathered the cards while another waiter stood behind him, marking down how much Kyle had won. “You’re the only one around here who gives me a run for my money.”

“I’m working.”

“Forget about that. You didn’t pass the bar last time, so why do you think the results are gonna be any different this time and, furthermore, that it’ll get you ahead at the firm?”

Some of the staff oohed, as if there was about to be a big street brawl. Murphy merely shook his head, seemingly amused.

Truthfully, Kyle’s words cut into him, made him anxious. He couldn’t say why. Murphy had a law degree and valuable experience at the firm under his belt; he wasn’t so much afraid he wouldn’t pass the bar this time than…what?

Damn, he didn’t want to think about what came afterward: hiring on with his cousin Ian’s law firm just as he’d always been expected to do. Going to the stifling parties, like the masquerade he’d have to attend this Sunday to network. Having the rest of his life planned out because he couldn’t let down his family by doing otherwise.

He sniffed as an enticing aroma—Chef Miike’s scallops with mushrooms over rice noodles—wafted past. Murphy closed his eyes, savoring more than just the scent. He held on to a fantasy that had no place on the path he was following—the dream of a restaurant where he could make magic in the kitchen.

As the smell disappeared, he opened his eyes again, seeing the words on the legal brief scattered before him.

Nerves rustled just under his skin, and his heart started to pound. There it was again—pressure building in him, around him, threatening from all sides. He felt as if there was a slab of rock pressing on his chest, pinning him down, stealing his freedom. He’d give his left arm to get out from under it.

But, true to form, Murphy told himself to let it go. Then he put on that carefree attitude like a cloak by resting his hands on the back of his neck, reclining farther in the chair and smiling at Kyle in a who-gives-a-crap way.

He knew it would drive his cousin nuts.

“Look at him,” Kyle said lightly, shuffling the cards and grinning at his friends. “The great hope of the Sullivans. The big brain who almost broke the bank to go to law school at fancy-pants Tulane.”

Hey, Murphy thought, he and his parents had worked long and hard to get him to the Louisiana college where he’d stayed with relatives, relied on scholarships and worked part-time to make ends meet. Murphy had even delayed enrollment a couple of years after high school graduation just to help earn his way through the school where all the Sullivan lawyers had gone. No wonder he felt so much pressure now. All the cash and hope that had been invested in him made passing the bar and succeeding that much more important.

Going to Tulane held symbolic significance in the family. The first Sullivan brothers had settled in New Orleans during the late 1800s and, gradually, after working their way up the lace-curtain ranks, two descendents had realized their dreams of opening a law practice in 1938. Having been educated at Tulane, they established a family scholarship fund for future Sullivan lawyers, thereby creating a precedent for each generation to aspire to. Sullivans who’d branched out to different areas of the country vied with each other to win the honor of attending the school, and when Murphy had made his parents proud by earning the award, the last thing he’d thought to do was refuse it or question whether it was actually the best school for him.

And while in New Orleans, he’d discovered cooking. Discovered that maybe being a lawyer wasn’t his first wish, after all.

Not that it mattered now. Murphy’s life was set, and he knew how lucky he was to have fate give him such an opportunity. After graduation, he’d moved back to San Fran to be near his close-knit family and work at his cousin Ian’s side, and all was well. For the most part.

Simmering with a low-burning frustration that seemed to get hotter each day, Murphy still didn’t let on that Kyle was getting to him. He just leaned back a little farther in that chair.

Kyle glanced over, gauging his cousin’s reaction. Not getting much of one, he shook his head and started dealing. When the maître d’, Gordon, cruised by the poker table, the waiter keeping track of the bets and winnings casually put the notepad behind his back.

“I’ve told you,” Gordon said, pointing at the cards, “no gambling here.”

Eyes wide, Kyle grinned, holding up his hands with the undealt cards still in them. “Who sees any money or poker chips, Gordie? We’re playing for fun.”

Gordon bristled, mostly because the nickname “Gordie” was beneath him. He stiffly walked away, his lips pursed.

Kyle and his comrades laughed as he finished dealing and the waiter took the scratch pad out again. One of the players, the only waitress on staff, verbally anted up while the amounts were recorded.

“Murphy,” she said in a deep smoker’s voice, “you’ve got to tell your cousin to kiss up more to Gordon.”

“Ah, Murphy doesn’t know the meaning of ‘kiss’ these days,” Kyle said, arranging his cards. “The poor boy hasn’t had any tail in—what is it now, Murphy? A millennium?”

At the keen reminder, pent-up steam whistled through Murphy’s veins. It’d been a few months, all right—ones that he’d tried to help pass with long days at the firm and the consolation prize of ambition.

Frustrated, Murphy finally stood and sauntered to the card table, glancing over another player’s shoulder. The waiter motioned for Murphy to keep his spot while he ran to the john. It was understood that he was trusting levelheaded Murphy to play out his hand without going overboard.

“Kyle’s going to grow up one day,” Murphy said, assuming the seat, “and leave the playground mentality behind.”

His cousin held up a finger. “Youth is wasted on those who don’t realize they’re gonna get old real quick.”

As Murphy got rid of two cards, he looked at Kyle. Looked at him closely.

They could’ve come out of the same womb, he and his cousin. People often commented on how much they resembled each other, even down to their athletic builds and their low voices. But they were so different it spun Murphy’s head around. Only two years separated them—Kyle was twenty-seven and he was twenty-nine—but it felt like a lifetime.

Oddly enough, Murphy kind of envied Kyle his outlook—his carpe diem nature and big dreams. Trouble was, Kyle never did anything to reach his potential, and that’s where Murphy stopped wishing he could be just a little more like his cousin.

“So, tell me, genius,” Kyle said, dealing the rest of the cards out, “you coming out with us after work tonight or what?”

Murphy kept a smile to himself when he saw that he’d gotten a straight flush. “Got things to do.”

“Right, researching some case or another for the underdogs of justice.” Cocky as ever, Kyle laid down three jacks. He addressed the other waiters. “I think Murphy just needs to be shanghaied outside his brain long enough for the girls to fall at his feet.”

Unbidden heat growled deep inside Murphy. The agony of needing to be inside a wet, warm woman clawed and burned.

He finally laid out his cards, leaning back in his chair again. Kyle’s face flushed at his cousin’s victory, a muscle in his jaw ticking. But then, after pushing aside the split second of tension, he laughed.

“Just like always,” he said, “Murphy’s the man.”

When Kyle sent him one last glance, Murphy could read everything in it, just as if Kyle was revealing a hand on the table: competitiveness and the longing of a young kid who’d followed Murphy around worshipfully while they’d grown up on the pavements of the Sunset District.

Murphy held his cousin’s gaze for a moment before Kyle shook his head then glanced away.

Why did it have to be like this between them? What was this intensity that had defined their relationship since Kyle and his sisters had lost their parents and moved in with Murphy’s family so many years ago?

He wished things could change. A lot of things, starting with having to wake up early and go to the firm.

Little did he know that when the head waiter came over to tell Kyle that he had a phone call on the main line, Murphy’s wishes would be answered.

Just not in the way he expected.

2

IT WAS FRIDAY NIGHT, and Tam’s stomach churned with nerves as she sat in a Mandarin-inspired lounge in North Beach, waiting for Kyle Sullivan. A hard-edged song flavored with Chinese lyrics rose above the clatter of an ever-growing crowd as people poured into the red, dragon-studded room.

“He’s still not here,” Tam said into her cell phone.

On the other end of the line, Danica’s calm voice soothed her. “It’s not seven o’clock yet. You’ve still got ten minutes, so don’t sweat it.”

Knowing she was right, Tam tugged nervously at her outfit. She’d chosen to wear a flowy black tunic with a raised collar. The sleeves were long, wide, dramatic in their flare, her pants tight and black and mostly covered by a large scarf tied at her hips and covering her rear. The boots were her favorite part, a stretch of leather that came to above her knees—artistic in a pirate kind of way. She wondered if Kyle would like her clothes, if they made a statement, announcing her creative side. If they would run the usual interference for her tonight; provide the usual distraction.

Or maybe he’d think they were dopey. Maybe her even being here was dopey. A mistake. Yup, she’d made a big mistake calling this guy, getting all dressed up and going out on the town. Sure, he’d been amused by the whole business-card-in-The-Boot story when she’d called him, and he’d been very charming on the phone, but…Tam’s nerves fluttered.

Okay, he’d been downright seductive, with his low, slightly lilting tone, his teasing banter. In Tam’s mind, she’d already built him up to be a sex god, a carefree soul who mirrored the person she imagined herself being. As they’d small-talked, her skin had warmed with anticipation.

Had she finally found a guy who’d be on her same wavelength, even if it was for just a lighthearted, confidence-inspiring fling?

An actual date, she kept thinking. I told him I was looking for a good time. That means I might actually get to feel a man’s hands on me again….

She blew out a breath.

“You just relax,” Danica said. “That’s exactly what I’m doing, waiting for my workaholic lawyer here at the bar in Rubicon. Spiffy, huh? He insisted on paying for dinner here. Got to be pretty well off—not that I’m shallow enough to have that be a prime requirement or anything. Still…bonus!”

Tam couldn’t help laughing at her friend’s bubbly nature. “I just hope we don’t end up on my couch at midnight, eating from a tub of Rocky Road and telling each other war stories.”

“Good times, that’s all that’s in store for you. Wait. This might be him. I think he sees the red rose I told him I’d have.”

At the mention of the “marker”—a symbol that would allow one blind date to recognize the other—Tam clutched hers, too. She’d told Kyle Sullivan that she’d be holding a black-and-silver Japanese fan. It complemented her outfit and gave her nervous hands something to do with themselves.

“Good luck,” Tam said.

“Good luck to you, too. Go get him!” And with that, Danica was gone.

Tam was left to sit alone at her high table near the wall, her eye on the door as she anxiously awaited her own date: the man with the gray-blue eyes and black hair The Boot had promised.

AS KYLE AND MURPHY ambled down the sidewalk toward the lounge, Kyle patted Murphy on the back.

“You should’ve heard her on the phone,” he said. “Sexy, sweet and just looking for trouble. Damn, I hope she’s as gorgeous as she sounds.”

The words were like white noise, simple to ignore. As usual, Kyle had been on Murphy all week, yapping and yapping about how Murphy needed to come out with him on their night off and meet some women.

And, since there was only so much temptation Murphy could take, he’d reached his limit a few hours ago, finally giving in. It’d been much too easy. His whole body was on complete overload, screaming to ease the physical ache that too much work and not enough play had inspired.

Yet…good Lord. Murphy knew how this adventure with Kyle would go. While his cousin romanced his blind date, Murphy might meet an interesting woman, talk to her, buy her a few drinks, but then the old conscience would kick in and he’d convince himself that he needed to get back to work.

He wouldn’t enjoy himself. He didn’t know how.

Just thinking about it made Murphy want to tear something apart. Why did he constantly hold himself on such a tight leash? With the encouragement of parents who’d had to scrape by all their lives, he’d always been too intent on making something of himself and fighting off the distractions that threatened to hold him back. Even his ex-girlfriends had complained about his reluctance to deviate from anything but work, work, work.

Despite his mental detour, Murphy could still hear Kyle talking, could still catch a whiff of his cousin’s aftershave. It hovered over the aroma of garlic that wafted out of a corner Italian trattoria.

“Tamara Clarkson made sure I knew she’s ready to roll,” Kyle continued. “Just my type. And we’ll find you a sure thing tonight, too, huh?”

“It’s not like my johnson needs a nanny,” Murphy said dryly. “I’ve got this under control.”

“Control?” Kyle gave Murphy a slight, taunting push. “The point is to lose control, Mr. Button-Down.”

Right, Murphy thought. Kyle was right.

They were approaching the door, into which a cluster of young tourists, probably from nearby Fisherman’s Wharf, disappeared.

“Here goes,” Kyle said. He smoothed down his hair, which had a tendency to go untamed if he didn’t watch it. “Now turn on the charm, Murph. I know you’re that strong and silent type, but sometimes girls like to be acknowledged with actual conversation.”

“Just get in there, Lothario.”

“I’ll do my best not to break any hearts—” Murphy’s cousin paused at the threshold, where hard music spilled into the twilight “—unless I have to.”

Kyle flashed Murphy a smile and stepped inside, immediately glancing around the room and becoming a part of the crowd.

A master of the game, Murphy thought, keeping Kyle within his line of sight as he sauntered into the thick of the mob, too. Just look at him, an expert on the prowl. He knew how to make women happy, even if he wasn’t very good at letting them down easy after the fun was done.

Kyle’s other weak point was his pickiness. He was a dog when it came to wanting only the gorgeous and lean sorority thoroughbreds who were ready to roll. And if they didn’t strike him as attractive right away, he tended to lose interest and move on to the next conquest. At the moment Kyle was sticking to the shadows of the room, searching for his date, wanting to check her out before committing.

That was his modus operandi, Murphy thought. Just a big enthusiastic kid who hadn’t grown up to appreciate more than a pretty face.

He shook his head and glanced away. If he had his younger cousin’s lust for life, he would use it wisely. But that was the whole point—Kyle wasn’t wise. He lived in the moment, out from under the weight of responsibility.

So, deep down, why did Murphy yearn to be that way, too?

Strains of a Chinese rock ballad tore through the room, ripping into Murphy and exacerbating his physical need with every vibration. Scenes from a Jet Li movie flashed over the TV screens hovering in the corners, the images stylized with vengeance and blood.

Murphy’s pulse pushed through him, awakening him. He missed being with people. Missed the friction of nearby bodies, the murmur of voices, the scent of a woman’s shampoo as she brushed by him.

He headed for the bar, the crowd around it as thick as collected moss, their bodies emanating heat. Impatient for a drink, Murphy looked around, deciding to get his social poison from a waitress instead.

And that’s when he saw her.

At a distant table, a woman waited, clutching a fan in one fist. The first personal feature Murphy noticed was her hair—a wild Bohemian bunch of light-brown curls that spilled down to her shoulders. Her fan, her hair, even the way she leaned on the table with her chin in her palm while playing with a corkscrewed strand, added up to a certain dramatic quirkiness.

Just as he was about to admit that she wasn’t anywhere near his type—a female who carried ambition in the disciplined cut of her hair and the steel of her posture suited him much better—he noticed this woman’s eyes. They were a startling blue, widened with such emotion—anxiety?—that he couldn’t look away. Eyes flashing with intelligent awareness, drawing Murphy in.

It was only when she blinked, then glanced at the door, that he noticed the off-kilter black clothing, the long boots hugging her legs, which were crossed, one ankle bobbing in time to the slow, revving guitar licks of the stereo.

Lust blindsided him, twisting in his belly, heating downward until his gut tightened.

Those boots. In spite of everything else about her, they made her into one of those bad girls Kyle had been tempting him with, a woman who’d do anything—with her mouth, with her hands and with her body.

Murphy craved a woman with such boots.

For a long second he allowed himself to wallow in the thought of her, to bathe himself in the mist of wicked longing.

He imagined slipping those boots off her legs or…damn, even keeping them on as he ran his thumbs over the inside of her thighs…. Somehow, with the deftness only a fantasy would allow, he could keep those boots on while working off her pants and underwear—which would be black lace, of course—and then parting those legs so he could see all of her.

She’d give him a naughty smile, her mouth lush with that shiny pink gloss she was wearing, then crook her finger at him.

Come on. What’re you waiting for?

He’d go to her, using his fingers to spread her apart. Her sex would be a deep pink, swollen, already wet. When he tasted her, she’d be warm, his tongue playing around the hood of her clit, teasing it, dipping inside her, kissing her until she moved against his mouth, asking for more, needing it, wanting it…

Asking him to punish this bad, bad girl with the pain of pleasure.

A loud laugh from behind Murphy shook him back to the moment.

He realized he was in a bar, in a crowd, and his cock was aching with fierce, stiff electricity.

Hell, the fantasy had been good while it’d lasted.

He glanced back at the woman, who was now stirring her drink, looking into its depths as if she could read the ice like tea leaves. He wanted to fixate on those boots again, but he couldn’t. Not this time.

Because in this second glance he saw something else about her—a sadness? Something almost hidden under the unruly hair, something that made her hold his attention for a few seconds longer than a girl would who was so obviously not his style.

But his body wasn’t about to let him get away with that. His penis was nudging against his jeans, still awake.

Great. In the middle of a crowd—the perfect place for an emerging hard-on.

It was at that well-timed moment of frustration that she glanced up, meeting the intensity of his gaze.

She sat up in her chair, smiled, the gesture full of cheer and hope, and the room’s temperature rose about fifty degrees.

He couldn’t explain why, but his pulse jerked, and it wasn’t from animal need this time. Seeing her all alone like this and smiling at him jiggered some kind of switch, merging desire and emotion into a confusing brew.

As he stood there, body raging, keening, his cell phone rang. It vibrated against a region that really didn’t require any more encouragement.

Blood pounding, he calmed himself and broke eye contact with the woman, answering the call.

But he couldn’t hear anything, so he headed for the door, managing to get there even with the state of his union rubbing against his jeans.

Kyle was waiting for him outside. Murphy knew his cousin too well—this wasn’t a good sign for the blind date.

“You can hang up. It’s just me.” Kyle tucked his own phone into his pocket, pulling Murphy away from the building and down the street.

“Hold up,” Murphy said, shoving his own phone away. He grabbed his cousin’s arm and stopped him from walking any farther. “Tell me you’re not ditching your date.”

Kyle guided Murphy near the entrance of a closed bakery, the enclosure partially hiding them. “I don’t need to be a fortuneteller to see that there’s nothing there.”

“You didn’t even have time to talk to her, so how could you know that? Isn’t she enough of a babe for you, Kyle?”

Murphy didn’t even know why he was firing away with these questions when the answers were so obvious. This was how Kyle operated; the process was no surprise.

Kyle flinched at Murphy’s tone, telling Murphy that he’d hit every target.

“She didn’t live up to what I pictured,” Kyle said. “The reality killed the fantasy, that’s all.”

“Perfect. Good from far, but far from good.”

“Cut it out, Murphy, I’ll call her right now to say I’ve got an urgent situation and can’t make it. That way neither of us will waste our time by pretending something’ll come of this. No harm done.” Kyle socked Murphy in the arm. “Then we’ll be on our way to better things, because my guy Murphy needs some distraction.”

Adding to his roguish act, Kyle offered a grin, but Murphy was immune.

“What?” Kyle asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He leaned against the building, watching a group of suntanned girls in light dresses walk by. Oddly enough, he didn’t even smile as they said hi to him. Instead he gave a slight nod, then fixed a lowered, tentative gaze on his cousin.

“Hell,” Murphy said, “at least you’ve got standards. At least you won’t screw anything that walks, right?”

Kyle exhaled, clearly relieved that Murphy had gotten his point. “Exactly. Why even make her think there’s a possibility of—”

“You’re a real hero, saving her feelings like this.” Murphy grunted. “You’re so damned shallow that you make a trickle of water look deep.”

“Well, shit, you want to go back in there and go on this mercy date instead? Be my guest. Tamara Clarkson’s the one with the frizzed-out hair, sitting in the corner with a weird fan. Go for it.”

Murphy’s head almost crashed in on itself. His still-awakened groin stirred. “A fan?”

“Yeah, a fan. Among other things, I’m not into average Josies from the drama club.”

Anger—odd and unexplained—welled up in Murphy. “I saw her. She was…” He stopped himself, but his mind finished the thought. She wasn’t average. Hell, no. Striking, yes. A stroke of color in a roomful of moving nothings. A woman who didn’t fit any traditional mold—not society’s definition of beauty, anyway. How could Kyle think she was average?

“Listen.” Murphy leaned closer, offended for her. “I know how you play it. You sweet-talked her on the phone, got her hopes up, and now you’ll drop her without another care. She’s probably going to be crushed that you stood her up.”

“You feel sorry for her.”

Hell, yeah, he did. But it was more than that. It was disappointment in Kyle’s lack of maturity. A twinge of jealousy, because Kyle always seemed to get what Murphy wanted with such relaxed ease—and took it all for granted.

Freedom. Careless immunity from accountability.

Murphy got angrier just thinking about it. Angry with himself for wanting the same thing.

But there was also something else—something much more disturbing about leaving Tamara Clarkson alone in the lounge. She’d seen Murphy, brightened at the sight of him. Based on how alike the cousins looked, she’d thought he was Kyle, didn’t she? Murphy might as well be the one ditching her for all she knew, and that didn’t sit right with him. Not at all.

Ironic, huh? He would love to go back in there, to talk with her and see where things led, to be Kyle for just one night, but he couldn’t.

“If she’d been my date…” Murphy said, trailing off.

“You’d what?” Kyle said, challenging him.

Images ran through his head: boots, skin-on-skin, sighs…

But the good guy in Murphy shut the fantasy machine down in the face of taking care of business. As usual.

Still, his body throbbed, unrelenting in its desire.

“I’d do the right thing,” Murphy finished, the words flavorless and drab, not halfway near what he would really like to say. “Tell me, what’s so wrong with spending an hour with her? Just one goddamned hour?”

“It’s not that. It’s…” Kyle ran a hand through his short dark hair. “I hate seeing the look on their faces when things don’t go the way they want them to, you know? The disappointment. I don’t like making them feel that way.”

“How sensitive. Why don’t you just forget about this and go on to another bar where you can meet a girl who suits your discriminating appetites? In the meantime, I’ll go back inside and make some excuse to Tamara Clarkson. I’ll buy her that drink you owe her.”

“You don’t need—”

“I think I do.” He detailed how Tamara had seen him and how that made Murphy feel responsible. “I’m not going to stand by and watch while you make this woman’s night a disaster.”

“Murphy…”

Kyle seemed devastated by his cousin’s disgust. Murphy knew the look: it was that of a little brother who’d disappointed the older sibling he idolized. But Murphy was hurting, too, because he’d always hoped that his younger cousin was better than this. Yet every time Murphy realized it wasn’t true, it pained him that much more.

“Are you really going to take over my date?” Kyle asked, seeming half relieved, half chastised.

“Damn straight. In fact, Kyle, maybe I’ll just go in there and pretend I’m you, just like you suggested,” he said, not meaning it. “Because you primed her for that wild man she talked to on the phone and I’m not him. Wouldn’t it be ironic if I got dumped because I wasn’t what she wanted?”

When Kyle raised his eyebrows, Murphy made a dismissive gesture, fighting off a strange thrust of yearning. He’d meant to be ridiculous, to mock his cousin, but the words were still hanging in the air.

She wanted a wild man. She wanted Kyle.

A flame licked at the inside of his belly. Murphy had thought about how great it would be to assume Kyle’s identity, just for the night. To walk freely and shove aside all his hang-ups. To play out the fantasies he’d entertained while watching her inside that lounge.

Stupid idea, Murphy thought. Crazy.

“Just…God, get out of here,” Murphy said, pissed off at Kyle. At himself.

“But—”

“Go.”

At Murphy’s derisive command, Kyle started to walk away, glancing back over his shoulder at his cousin. He looked like a stray dog who’d been kicked to the curb by the owner he adored. Then he disappeared around the corner, shoulders slumped.

Murphy fisted his hands, battling an urge to catch up to Kyle and take back his harsh words. But he couldn’t. Not when the ego of that woman was at stake. Not when it was up to Murphy to take care of her now.

Take care of her….

As he stood there, excitement took root, even as he told himself that usurping Kyle’s place didn’t mean anything more than buying a beautiful, desirable woman one drink…even as he fought the feeling that she would be disappointed with getting a mild man instead of a wild man.

IT WAS 7:20.

Tam wanted to go home, but she also wanted to wait for Kyle Sullivan—if that’s who the guy had been—to come back into the bar. If he was her blind date, had he run as far away and as fast as he could after getting one look at her?

Middle-school-bred insecurities rushed back to her—long face, long nose…horse face.

She didn’t want to think about it. But he’d booked out of the lounge pretty quickly with that cell phone to his ear and hadn’t returned.

The reminder made her feel lonelier than ever, kicking her into departure mode. A hole numbed her stomach, an empty place where she could hide the ugly truth: he’d thought she wasn’t pretty. Her clothes, her determination to look approachable, hadn’t worked.

Stinging, she reached for her small shoulder bag. Then she headed for the door, telling herself that she was fine, chalking the night up to just another crummy day in the jungle. A day that would probably set her back another year in the dating department but—what the hell—she’d get over it.

Eventually.

But as she threaded her way to the door, she stopped in her tracks.

Because there he was, standing not five feet away, gazing at the table she’d deserted. Three college girls had already claimed the space, giggling and offering each other cheers at their good fortune.

He put his hands on his hips, turning around, surveying the room, and…

Oh. My. God.

Tam’s heartbeat thundered in her head. If this was her date, he’d lived up to the advertisement, with those blue-gray eyes that were more gorgeous than she could’ve ever imagined. Dark eyebrows winged above them, lending him a wry edge. He also had the promised black hair, cut short, conservative, although she did sense a hint of wildness where the strands had grown out, showing a bit of curl. He was tall and well built. A T-shirt covered a wide chest, muscles roping through his arms.

Very, very hot. So hot she wondered how long he would talk to her before realizing he was too hot to be talking to her.

Should she go to him and find out if he was her guy?

She heard a group of voices in the back of her mind. The Sisters of the Booty Call, their chant rising in power: Do it, do it, do it…

If not now, when? She was here to take control, right?

Sucking in a breath, she forced her body in his direction, walking with determination.

All too soon she was standing in front of him, her heart jittering against her ribs.

“Looking for this?” she said, flashing her fan.

Was that her sounding all flirty and confident again? See, she could cover what she’d been feeling only moments ago. And why not? She’d spent most of a lifetime being good at it.

When he spun around, spotted the date marker and grinned in acknowledgment, she almost tumbled to the floor.

Oh. My. God. Part two.

That smile…it was aimed at her. Her. Tamara Clarkson, the girl who, only moments ago, thought her date had burned rubber.

Over the music, he motioned toward an empty spot near the wall, gently grabbing her elbow to lead her. Her skin blazed against the pressure of his fingers, a bolt of electricity zigzagging down through her tummy, just about splitting her apart, leaving her aching.

“I had some difficulty getting back in here,” he said, battling the music with his voice. “Sorry about keeping you waiting.”

See, everything was okay. In fact, he was leaning against the plank wall, aiming his body toward her, giving her an appreciative glance that made her skin flush.

“Want a drink?” she asked boldly.

Go, girl, go, girl…

He paused, sending a flash of terror into her chest. But then he seemed to consider something, and he broke into that sexy, slow smile.

“What’ll you have?” he asked, his eyebrows raising suggestively.

Whoo-boy. Tam knew what she wanted.

3

UP CLOSE, her eyes were breathtaking.

Clear and open. The touch of innocence he glimpsed in them made him wonder if she knew what wearing a pair of thigh-high boots did to a guy.

He felt himself stirring to life again, a clutch of welcome agony that had a hold of his cock and wouldn’t let go.

As he watched Tamara Clarkson order a Mai Tai, he concentrated on her pouty mouth, drawn by every word she formed while she talked. All he wanted was reach out to trace her lips with his fingers, to slip one inside and slide it in and out as a promise, an invitation.

How would she react if he tried it? He could tell she was attracted to him, but maybe that was because she’d already talked to Kyle and he’d pumped her up with expectations Murphy couldn’t even begin to think of fulfilling. Or could he?

He realized that Tamara was staring at him. Had she asked a question that he’d been too hot and bothered to hear?

Recovering more smoothly than he could ever have anticipated, he pretended that the music and the crowd’s noise had been the problem. He leaned over to her, closer.

As she laughed a little, her warm breath caressed his ear. And even over the bar’s working-class perfume of stale sweat and hops, he caught the scent of her: honeysuckle and orange blossoms, earthy and sweet.

Murphy’s skin flared with a flash of heat.

“I thought maybe you’d changed your mind and left.” She paused, bit her bottom lip then smiled. “I thought that…well, maybe you decided the business-card routine was too forward after all, too out of the ordinary. But then I remembered what you said on the phone….”

There was a daring gleam in her eyes as she trailed off and backed away from him just enough to gauge his answer, possibly even to ferret out why he had left the lounge earlier.

There was no way he would say that Kyle had judged her as “not pretty enough” and abandoned the date for greener pastures.

Searching for an answer, Murphy could only guess what Kyle had already said to her. And whatever the specifics, Tamara Clarkson had clearly liked every bit of Kyle’s act. He could tell by the anticipation in the flush of her cheeks, the way her body was angled toward him, as his was toward hers.

Before he could stop himself, he leaned down and said something that could’ve come straight out of Kyle’s own mouth.

“I like knowing that you made the first move.” His lips brushed against her hair. “Confidence is attractive, and it shows that you’re open to—” he laughed, her strands tickling his mouth “—anything we come up with.”

Damn, even his voice sounded like his cousin’s. It wasn’t hard to imitate Kyle—his own mom couldn’t even tell them apart on the phone—but it was the tone he used that rattled him.

The innuendo that he was a different man.

Tamara’s fingers were pressed against his chest, not to push him away, but perhaps in reaction to what he’d said. He wondered if she could feel his heart banging, if the vibration of his pulse had traveled through her hand and was echoing inside of her.

Instinct told him that she wanted to hear more of Kyle’s flirting, that she might already be so into the fantasy of Kyle that she might reject Murphy if he backtracked and told her who he really was.

A boring drone. A turnoff to someone with Tamara’s obvious predilection for a wild boy.

Was telling the truth worth it when things were going so well? What would revealing his identity accomplish, especially since this wasn’t going to turn into a serious relationship anyway? After tonight, she would never be the wiser to his identity, especially if Murphy could use to his advantage all the persuasive skills he’d professionally honed and somehow convince her that a single date would be enough, that it would be her idea never to see him again. Could he manage that?

It was a hell of a lot better than what Kyle would’ve done.

Going beyond tonight with her wasn’t an option, anyway. The less she knew, the more likely it was that she would never find out why Kyle had unceremoniously dumped her. Murphy didn’t wish that truth on any woman.

She turned her face so that she was talking near his ear again. “You’re my first date in this city. I don’t know much about what to do for kicks.”

“You’re in my capable hands.”

They grinned at each other, the double entendre hardly lost on either of them. In that moment, he realized that she did know what her boots were all about. That she’d worn them on purpose. That she hadn’t been kidding about having a good time when she’d talked to Kyle on the phone.

As the waitress brought their drinks, Murphy insisted on paying, not only because it was courteous but because he wanted to make this up to her. He was lying by omission, and he felt too good to stop.

He took a swig of the draft beer, and she sipped from her cocktail. The drink left some moisture on her lower lip, and she sucked at it, casting him a slanted look.

He leaned close again, breathing her in, feeling drunk with the freedom of stepping outside of himself, of playing a naughty game that had no rules.

“What do you like to do, Tamara Clarkson?”

Definitely Kyle: teasing, lightly charming, the kind of guy women forgave a few lies because he was so entertaining.

“The usual.” She stirred her drink, ice-sweat clinging to the glass. “Travel, read, watch too much TV.” She made an endearingly goofy face. “I decorate stuff, too.”

“Decorate?”

When she laughed, his neck tingled with the dampness of her breath. It smelled of exotic fruits.

“I’m working on some home improvements. And I kind of have this thing for making my own clothes. Fashion makes the world—” she paused, shrugged “—a more beautiful place, I suppose.”

He ran a lingering gaze over her body, from the high neck of the wide-sleeved, gauzy blouse, over her breasts, down her scarf-clad waist, past her hips to her legs.

She shifted, as if restless under the weight of his lazy perusal. Just like that he was turned on again, his entire body one beating mass of erotic energy.

At that moment, it became perfectly clear to Murphy: what he wanted more than anything in this world was for her to desire him, to surrender to his hands as they roamed her up and down, to ask for more as he peeled off the layers of clothing that separated them.

Primal, predatory. His lust robbed him of logic. All that existed was here and now. Want. Need.

“You’re talented,” he said, voice ragged as he dragged his gaze back to her face. “You really know how to dress, Tamara.”

“Tam,” she said, voice soft in his ear. “Just Tam, okay?”

Heartbeats marked the seconds that thudded between them.

Murphy propped his arm on the wall, just below the gold of a Chinese symbol. With him hovering over her, she had to tilt her chin to look up at him.

She wasn’t a short woman, coming up to just above his shoulder. Their proximity meant that her mouth was this close to his neck. All she would have to do is cant over a couple of inches to press her lips to his skin.

The music’s volume abruptly lowered, breaking the flow of his thoughts. With a glance, Murphy discovered that the bartender had turned down the stereo while he argued with a patron who’d imbibed way too much happy juice.

Great. That meant there was no need to lean over her anymore. The lack of a rhythmic, driving cadence changed the room’s tone, somehow set them back to first-date distance.

“Julia had nice things to say about you.” Tam was holding her drink in front of her chest now.

Kyle. She was talking about Kyle. Murphy had to keep reminding himself.

“What did Julia have to say?” Murphy asked, not certain who the woman even was. Could she be the one who’d put Kyle’s name into the business-card lottery? His cousin had told him all about the setup, but had failed to mention the name of the lady he’d impressed, not that he probably even remembered.

“Hmm, let me think. What did she say?” Tam tapped a finger against her mouth, stopped, then glanced at him sideways out of the corner of her eye.

Cute. Taunting him, huh?

Murphy inched nearer, lowering his arm from the wall.

“Tell me everything,” he said, tweaking a curl that was hanging down to her collarbone. Inadvertently—or maybe not—he skimmed against the thin material separating his finger from her flesh, and her face went red.

Strangely, it was the most seductive reaction he could’ve wished for. An unexpected combination, an angel wearing the devil’s lingerie.

“You going to hold me in suspense here?” he asked. “Or are you going to tell me what Julia said?”

“Oh, just the basics.”

She tentatively reached out, tugged on the bottom of his T-shirt. It was the shy move of an unpracticed hand, confusing Murphy. Stoking him further.

“She said you’re a waiter,” she added, “but you want to open your own restaurant someday.”

Murphy wasn’t sure how to respond. He and Kyle had talked about this, but never seriously. His cousin didn’t have the ambition to commit to that kind of project. But it was true that Murphy loved the dream of his own place, where he could indulge himself in the world’s second-best stress-relieving activity: cooking. Kyle enjoyed it just as much, meaning that it was one more thing for them to get competitive over.

Also, Murphy wasn’t Kyle, and the reminder sent another ping of adrenaline through him.

Forget it. All he knew was that he wanted to be touching her again, and from the way she kept glancing at him from beneath her eyelashes, he guessed that she felt the same way.

When she opened her mouth to say something else, Murphy impetuously took up where she’d left off when she’d pulled at his T-shirt. He casually ran a finger down her thinly covered arm, just as if he did this sort of thing every night of the week. Her mouth remained open, the words frozen as she watched his face.

The breath caught in his chest while he waited for her reaction.

HIS TOUCH BURNED her world at its edges.

As Tam stood there, stunned and overjoyed, she heard the sucking sound of flame being pulled into her body—a backdraft that singed through her flesh, deeper, until it flared around her belly, stirring her up and making her keenly aware of how badly she’d missed being with a man.

Driving home how much she wanted this man.

The awakening interest she’d felt for him on the phone was nothing compared to what was happening now—the fire, the attraction, the utter pleasure of connecting.

He was measuring her with an intense gaze, tacitly asking her to come a step closer to what she’d been hoping for when she’d drawn his name out of the vase.

For a good time call…

But just as she was about to respond—with a gesture? with words?—a stumbling girl backed into Tam, making her cocktail splash over her glass’s rim and onto her hand.

Immediately Kyle reached out to keep the tanked girl from knocking into Tam again.

“You all right?” he asked Tam.

The party girl cut off her response, grabbing on to Kyle’s arm and swaying into him.

“Whoa. Will you marry me?” she asked, slurring.

Her friends broke into embarrassed laughter and dragged her away. Clearly amused, Kyle raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

Was he flushing a little? Nah. Couldn’t be. Based on what she’d already learned about Kyle Sullivan, he wouldn’t be the type. Nope—not the cocky man who’d accepted a weird call for a blind date. Not the anything-goes guy who’d offered to show her the ropes tonight.

She blew out a breath, and shrugged. “So much for privacy here.”

His eyes widened a little as he handed her a napkin to dry off. Jeez, she’d sounded…well, really easy. Sounded as if she was hot to get him alone.

But wasn’t she?

Before she could find an answer, he was back to making her feel like the most beautiful woman in the room, giving her that teasing look, that knowing smile.

“Want to get out of this zoo?” he asked.

He was into her! She held back a happy dance.

“That’d be great. Maybe some fresh air?”

Fresh air. Heh. So that’s what they called it these days.

He took her hand, his fingers warm around hers, and led her through the crowd and out of the lounge, into the purple-gray of coming night. The wind had picked up a little, toying with her hair as they headed toward God-knows-where.

“I know a quieter bar nearby,” he said, squeezing her hand, not letting go, even though they were done with dodging people.

She liked that he was still holding her, liked that she could link her fingers through his and feel her arm rubbing against those muscles.

They passed boutiques, other bars, a dance club. Soon he slowed their pace, and she felt the urge to chat, because it’d been so simple with him before.

“So. Whereabouts do you live?”

“Over in Sunset. I’ve got an apartment—”

He cut himself off, then laughed. Did he want to keep this night on an impersonal level? Part of her applauded the decision, but the other part…

Get a grip, she thought. You’re not here to get serious.

“And you?” he asked.

Odd. She’d told him on the phone. But…whatever. He’d probably forgotten.

“I moved to Russian Hill a few weeks ago.” Before he could start with the inevitable commentary, she hurried to correct his admiration. “I’m just house-sitting one of my family’s places while my dad is on a long-term consulting job in New York. I’m not exactly a perfect Hill fit, so don’t worry.”

Clearly, she had no reservations about talking too much—especially about why she was living in such a swank location. But that was what she did when she was nervous—cover the awkwardness with chatter.

Her breast brushed against his biceps, and she felt him tense, as if holding himself back.

“How’d you end up in that kind of home?” he asked, voice low, rougher than it had been on the phone, an almost-growl taking the place of the very faint lilt.

When she drew in a breath, it sounded shaky, all her pent-up needs wavering on the edge.

“My dad took a job here back when I was in college. He’s an architect and fell in love with the house because it’s from the—what is it?” She snapped her fingers. “Second Bay-Area Tradition Style.”

Despite the house’s beauty, it was lonely living by herself. She concentrated on Kyle’s nod to chase away the thought.

“What about your mom?” Kyle asked.

“Divorced. We talk on the phone, but…” She faded off, not wanting to chat about this. To hide it, she perked up, determined to make this night a great one. “Enough about me. You’ve got a family, I suppose.”

“You’re not thinking I was raised by wolves? I’ve given you the wrong impression, then.” He grinned down at her, and she could tell by the look on his face that, even during this seduction, he could still allow a moment of affection for his family to intrude.

But seconds later his eyes had darkened again, consuming her as he ran a gaze over her mouth.

Her knees wobbled a bit. Whoo-boy.

She swallowed. “Wolves? Except for the part where you were late, you’re a perfect gentleman.”

His laugh was on the biting side. He chopped it off by gesturing toward the entrance of a nondescript bar, indicating that this was their destination.

When he ushered her inside, their talk about personal details eased off. That was because she was too enchanted by the room to pursue anything else.

The decor was beatnik, with low lighting, intimate booths and a sense of indelible cool. Two women dressed in Kerouacesque turtlenecks—the only customers—played pool under the multihued liquor bottles that hung from the rafters. The glass was backed by soft lights, creating a rainbow of muted color. Near the back, a door opened into what looked like a courtyard, and next to it, a man worked his fingers over the strings of a bass, his tune moody and sinful.

Kyle grabbed them a couple of drinks, then led her outside where lounge chairs faced an empty wooden stage. They probably held spoken-word readings here, she thought, excited by the prospect. But right now she and Kyle were alone.

She felt his gaze on her, and when she met it, he wasn’t smiling anymore.

No. He had that look. The look of a man who’d brought her here for privacy.

She returned that look, ready for whatever came next.

SHE WAS ACTUALLY responding to him.

The confirmation of his hopes only added to the heady thrill of what he was getting away with. For the first time in years, he was breathing easy. In fact, he hadn’t even thought of work since Kyle had left, and that was something.

Still…what in the hell was he doing?

He set down their drinks then watched as she sighed and sank back against the brick wall. Beneath the glow of a lantern, the buttery hue bathed her skin, making the highlights in her curly hair dance. Her hand drifted up to touch her neck, and she rubbed her fingertips over her skin, as if sending a silent invitation.

“I’ve been here during the summer, way back when,” he said. “They had a man who spoke Ray Charles songs like they were poems.”

The low, alluring musings from the bass floated on the air, seducing his conscience, telling him it was okay to lie for just one night.

“Does he still perform here?” Tam asked. Her voice wasn’t higher than a whisper.

“I have no idea. I—” Careful.

He’d almost added that he didn’t have much time for entertainment anymore, but he’d stopped himself. Kyle wouldn’t have said it, and neither should he.

Suddenly too self-aware, Murphy didn’t move toward her, even though he was dying to.

In an effort to change the subject yet again, he said, “Your hair. It’s…”

“I know. Messy. Frizzed out.”

She glanced away, and disappointment seized him. But then, as if recovering from something, she looked at him again, allowing that huge, gorgeous smile to light over her lips.

“It’s not messy at all,” he said. “I like it.”

Understatement. It reminded him of steamy nights, of a woman lounging on a bed with the sheets sweated to her body, her hair in disarray. Reminded him of younger, New Orleans-misted memories from Tulane.

Dammit, he wanted to see her that way, sated and relaxed by what he could do to her.

“I guess,” she said, voice low as she moved closer, “it’s natural that you’d like my hair. You said on the phone that you’re into wild things.”

The comment made him smile. And he knew it was a smile he wouldn’t normally wear. It felt wolfish, appropriate for a man reaching out to test a woman’s hair between his fingers, wishing he could slip his hand a little lower….

“You’re into the same things, right, Tam?”

She was playing the game—the touch-and-go of verbal foreplay. It was in the tilt of her mouth, the rise of her chin as she met his stare.

“Wild as in…?” she ventured.

Screw it.

He reached toward her, coasting his fingers to the back of her neck, slipping one into her high collar to smooth over her nape. He heard her intake of breath.

“As in—” he whisked his fingertips downward over her spine to the small of her back, where he started drawing slow circles “—anything goes.”

Good. So, so good.

As her breathing got faster, his other hand crept around to her throat. He stoked the soft skin of it, feeling her working to swallow.

“I don’t really even know you from Adam,” she said.

Or Kyle.

She’d said the right words, revving him up with the reminder that he’d left himself behind.

“Then we need to do something about getting acquainted,” he whispered.

He knew she could leave right now—that he could, too. But neither of them was moving.

Maybe she was the type of woman who knew what kind of message those boots sent. And maybe she could give Murphy what he needed.

A taste of bad.

4

AS KYLE STROKED Tam’s throat, he also pressed and circled his fingers just below her spine—in very insistent, very persuasive caresses. They sent rivulets of gathered steam through her belly, dampening and readying her for more.

Her breathing picked up speed, and she instinctively shifted her hips, getting closer to him. When her stomach brushed his jeans, a hard ridge told her that this was really on. That she was back in the game.

She gripped his shirt as her sex tightened into a pinpoint of stimulated pain.

She’d missed this. One whole year had gone by since her last make-out session, but, miraculously, tonight was proving that it wasn’t impossible for her to be wanted. How was it that this gorgeous man didn’t see what she saw in the mirror?

Still…there was something keeping her from fully grinding against him, giving in and going for it. Was it fear that he would realize he wasn’t attracted to her after all?

An excuse, she thought biting her lip and fighting the thoughts that wouldn’t leave her alone. That’s just a lie you tell yourself instead of facing the real reasons you’re afraid.

In the back of her mind, she remembered a long-ago night, the aroma of barbecued hamburgers still lingering on the air from dinner. She’d stayed outside in the dry Nevada air to play with some dolls, but her parents had gone in once they’d started arguing again. They’d unwittingly left their bedroom window open.

You screwed him, her dad had said, agonized. And it wasn’t just one time. Didn’t you think I’d find out?

In answer, her mom had only cried.

Now Tam pushed away the memory. But she couldn’t deny that this was why she stayed home so many weekend nights. To avoid a relationship that could one day lead to secrets and lies, to a breakup as wounding as her parents’. A divorce that had given her too many reasons to get tired of the dating world quickly and easily. A divorce that had established a pattern for rejection after her mother had abandoned her without a fight.

“Tam,” Kyle whispered. His breath was laced with a reminder of the beer he’d had at the last bar.

The word tingled her ear and, with a final refusal to listen to her misgivings, she gave in to the warmth, finding it could be oddly simple to forget everything but him if she allowed herself to. He nuzzled her cheek, his own scratched with stubble. He smelled like shaving cream—clean and masculine.

The scent, the friction of a man’s skin on her own, struck a primal chord. She twisted his shirt out of his pants, the vibration of the bass from the main bar throbbing in her ears. Gently she latched her teeth against his neck, tasting the tang of him, and bit lightly.

Kyle grunted, obviously surprised. Then he laughed softly, sliding a palm under her butt. With determined force, he guided her out of the light and into a corner where the darkness semicovered them from anyone who might wander into the yard.

Oh, yeah, Tam thought, too excited to even think anymore. It’s on.

He pressed her back against the brick wall. His arms cushioned her from most of it as he planed his body against hers, fit himself comfortably then—after a second in which they both caught their breath—almost arrogantly. In the next instant, his lips covered hers, wet and carnal. An open-mouthed kiss, it was both demanding and languorous, spinning her mind out of her body and replacing it with pure impulse.

Solid thoughts escaped her, and she saw butterflies on the backs of her eyelids, free and open, within her reach.

Grasping at the liberation, she gave herself over to Kyle’s kiss, devouring him right back, threading her fingers through his hair and rubbing her body against his.

His erection had only gotten harder, prodding her as she wrapped a boot-clad leg around him.

He gasped for air, almost as if she’d just thrown a punch at his gut. But he recovered quickly, nibbling at her ear and skimming his hand over her boot. He panted, and in the dimness, she could see him glancing down at her leg. At he same time, he arched into her, made her groan low in her throat.

“These boots…” he said.

At the hint of frantic reverence in his tone, her confidence climbed a notch. “What about them?”

He adjusted his grip on her leg, rocking her against his stiffness at the same time. She made another wincing sound of pleasure. Her sex was slick and pounding with longing—damn, she could hardly stand it.

Expertly, he slid a palm up to the cusp of her boot, inserted a finger into the gape where suede met the cotton of her pants. The black scarf around her hips covered the rest of his hand with its fringes, and the hidden mystery of what he might do next shot a buzzing thrill through her.

When he rubbed, she reacted with a jerk. He smiled knowingly down at her.

Dangerous, she thought, grasping at a thread of common sense that unfurled through her brain. He was a near stranger who had way too much sway over her right now.

But she was allowing him to do this, so she could handle it. She wanted it, and she was ready to take what was being offered.

He was running his fingers across her leg, getting closer, then dragging away from the ache between her thighs.

“I’ve already had about fifteen fantasies about you in these boots,” he whispered.

He almost sounded shy. Sure. As if this Romeo was capable of shy.

Still…he’d already had fantasies? About her?

“When I saw you in the bar,” he continued, fingers reaching her outer thigh then, slowly, so slowly, traveling back inward, “it only took me about a second to invent a scenario.”

Ooooh. His naked admission speared into her, turning her on like a solar flare.

His fingers strayed to her inner thigh, and she flinched again in reaction, hitching in a tight breath.

“Tell me,” she said. “Just tell me what you imagined.”

In the half-darkness, he smiled again—more to himself than anything else, she thought. He toyed with her nerve endings, drawing her out with every exploring touch.

“It’s nothing too out there.” He stroked upward. “I just wondered if you were going to let me—” he glided his thumb into the crevice between her legs “—do something like this.”

When he pressed her clit, she strained against him, crying out softly. She didn’t even have time to suck in another ounce of oxygen before he began massaging her. Even through her thin pants, his touch was electric.

In the midst of this, she had no shame. Why should she? Tam was a woman, one who craved and needed, one who knew right now exactly what she wanted and wasn’t ashamed to claim it.

She echoed his strokes with tiny movements of her hips, encouraging him, showing them both that she was the kind of woman who went for what she wanted.

“I haven’t,” she said between pulsations, “worn these…boots at all…. This is…first time.”

“Good.” With every subtle thrust of his thumb, he watched her, as if entranced by the show. “I’m just going to go ahead and think that they’re all mine, then.”

At least for tonight, she thought. They didn’t need to clarify that. Didn’t have to make promises about the future when this was enough for now.

Beats of a building hunger slammed through her, faster, harder. He circled with more intensity, wedging his arm behind her head so it didn’t knock against the wall with every push.

Then, kissing her again, he used his tongue to accentuate and echo the drives of his thumb, the gyrations of her hips.

She clung to him for life and sanity. And bit by bit the sharp anguish between her legs expanded, heated, grew until it ate away at every inch of her.

When she came, it was in tearing doses, one climax, two, wave upon wave of pounding release and quiet fury. She groaned into his neck with each blow until she was done.

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