“Have you ever made love in an elevator?” Ken whispered in her ear

“I—” Lisa couldn’t get the words out when Ken’s hand snaked down her back, under the waistband of her skirt. He was crossing the line, and she stood up straighter, almost unwilling to believe Ken was seducing her in a semipublic place. “Ken, not here.”

“Yes, here.” His fingers teased her, dipping beneath the band of her bikini panties. “You said everything and everything, remember?” he reminded her in a husky tone as he cupped her backside more intimately, stroking her, tempting her. Lisa’s knees went weak and she had to grab the handrail for support. “Did you lie?” he asked.

“N-no.” Someone else’s voice. Unfamiliar and raspy. But Lisa didn’t care. Whatever Ken’s game was, he was winning.

He thrust his hips forward and she writhed shamelessly against his hard body, silently begging for more. Lost in an erotic haze, she rested her head against the cool glass walls of the elevator.

Glass? Her eyes flew open. “Ken!” She tried to wriggle free. “This is a glass elevator!”

A slow grin spread across his face. “That’s what makes it so much fun….”

Dear Reader,

I love big cities. The thrum of energy, the sensual beat…the infinite possibilities around every corner. I lived in Los Angeles for four years and loved every minute of it. Setting my first Blaze novel in that fabulous city was a huge thrill for me. Since it was a Blaze title, I needed to find characters with an extremely sensual story to tell. And since it was set in L.A., I wanted characters with jobs that represented the two things the city is known for—food and film.

Lisa and Ken’s story is one of lost love and reconciliation…along with a fair bit of sensual revenge! These two are professionals whose passion for their career is almost as strong as the passion in their personal lives. So when Lisa returns to Ken needing a favor—five years after she walked out on him—the tension under the surface is undeniable…and the chemistry between them is inescapable. He agrees to help…for a price. And I assure you, it’s a price that will leave you breathless!

I’d love to hear what you think of my contribution to the SEXY CITY NIGHTS miniseries. Write to me at P.O. Box 151417, Austin, TX 78715-1417. Or you can visit my Web site at www.juliekenner.com to see what else I’ve got in the works! And don’t forget to check out www.tryblaze.com!

Enjoy,

Julie Kenner

L.A. Confidential
Julie Kenner

For Tim…who makes a mean plate of migas.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Prologue

“MARK MY WORDS,” Lisa Neal heard the bartender say. “Within five years, everyone in Los Angeles will be falling all over themselves to get a table at a Kenneth Harper restaurant.”

Lisa had been sitting with her back leaning against the mahogany bar, her eyes scanning the crowd for Ken, but now she twisted her stool around. Behind the bar, Chris was shaking a martini and talking to a polished-looking redhead who seemed both fascinated and slightly intoxicated.

“Seriously,” Chris said, “for someone from a hick town in Texas, the man’s a marvel. He knows exactly where he wants to be, and he’ll get there, too.”

Lisa couldn’t help but smile. After dating Ken for close to a year, she had no doubt that what Chris said was true. Still, she couldn’t resist teasing the bartender, and she leaned closer. “Chris, I’m shocked. Five years? Awfully disloyal, don’t you think? Three seems much more likely.”

“He’s not you, Lisa,” he said dryly. “I figure you’ll be getting your first Academy Award this week.”

She laughed. Sadly, seven days was a little fast even for the career schedule she’d worked out in her head. “Considering I just finished shooting my thesis film this morning, maybe we should make that a month.”

“Slacker.”

She made a face and tapped her wineglass, which he topped off before turning back to the redhead. Lisa genuinely liked Chris. For that matter, she liked all the people Ken had recruited to work in Oxygen, his very first restaurant. From what she could tell, he’d chosen his people well. Tonight’s opening gala had been the event of the summer, and it was going over without a hitch. The place was hopping with minor celebrities and celebrity wanna-bes. Cameras were flashing, the crowd was buzzing, and the smell of celebration—not to mention exceptional food—filled the air.

Earlier, a restaurant critic from the Los Angeles Times had come to their table and personally congratulated Ken. Of course, Lisa hadn’t expected anything less. After all, Ken’s talent and drive was one of the things that had attracted her in the first place. Ken Harper’s ambition equaled her own, and that was a rare trait indeed.

Not that she was interested in settling down, but if she were, it would be with a man like Ken. She took a long sip of wine, realizing with a start how completely happy she’d been over the past eleven months. Amazing.

Ken had snuck up on her, and for the first time in her life, she didn’t mind feeling committed to a man. Not that she intended to get all mushy. Not now, when her career was about to take off. In the real world, what mattered was success, and Lisa had been just as pragmatic in choosing a relationship as she had in choosing a graduate school.

Her whole life she’d accomplished whatever she set her mind to. Valedictorian of her high school class. Editor of the yearbook. The state essay contest. She knew from watching her own family how important goals were. Her mom had given up a legal career on Wall Street to live in Idaho with her dad, and then he’d up and left after Lisa and her sister, Ellen, started high school. A single mom with two kids, Lisa’s mother wasn’t exactly up to going back to New York, so she’d ended up trapped—and resenting the hell out of Lisa’s father. And all because she’d sacrificed her career for a man.

Lisa’s sister didn’t have it much better. Ellen had married a nice enough guy, but she was trapped in that same small town just because her husband owned a local hardware store. So instead of traveling the world and shooting photos of exotic locales for fancy magazines as could have been her fate, Ellen worked part-time at a department store, shooting portraits of kids who really didn’t want to be there.

Maybe Ellen was happy—she said she was—but Lisa didn’t ever intend to do that to herself. She’d had her life mapped out from day one, and she intended to follow through. That’s who she was, and she never intended to lose sight of that fact.

Still, Ken was as close to a soul mate as she’d ever found—could ever imagine finding, for that matter. And every day they spent together drew them a little bit closer. For a loner like Lisa that was scary, but it was exciting, as well.

She shifted on the stool, scanning the crowd without success to find him. For a moment she wondered if he’d disappeared into the kitchen. Then a man in a dark blue suit moved aside, and suddenly there Ken was. She took a deep breath, her pulse quickening when he caught her eye and the corner of his mouth turned up in a secret smile meant only for her.

Two years older than Lisa, Ken had just turned twenty-six. Even so, he commanded the room. His clear blue eyes looked every guest in the face, his firm handshake making each feel welcome and comfortable. Lisa knew from experience that those hands were callused and rough, but that would only serve to endear him to the public. Though his classic good looks might suggest otherwise, Ken wasn’t a man who shied away from hard work.

His tailored silk suit wasn’t pretentious, but neither was it off the rack, and the ensemble gave him a cultured yet accessible quality that Lisa was sure would attract the clientele in droves. As Ken was fond of saying, in the restaurant industry, the food had to be perfect. And everything else—the space, the service, the ambience—had to live up to that standard.

His eyes never left hers as he moved easily through the crowd until he was by her side, his hand warm against her bare back as he dipped his head to kiss her cheek. “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” His feather-soft whisper teased her senses.

Pressing her forefinger to her lip, she pretended to consider. “Mmm. Let’s see…gorgeous, stunning, amazing. But no, not beautiful.”

He moved behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders as he leaned close. “You’re beautiful.”

She grinned. “And you’re a charmer.”

“True,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to her. “But I’m an honest charmer.”

He signaled to Chris, who brought him a sparkling water with lime, and then Ken started asking the bartender’s opinion of how the opening was going. She watched as the two men talked, impressed once again with the life that was hers since she’d moved to Los Angeles.

She’d shocked everyone in her small Idaho hometown when she’d applied for early admission to U.C.L.A. and moved to the big, bad city right after her junior year of high school. Of course, the move hadn’t come as any huge surprise for her mother. After all, Lisa’d spent her entire life with her face behind a lens—first her grandfather’s ancient Super 8, and then the school’s video camera. Still, her mom had been nervous about her firstborn moving to California at seventeen.

She’d done them proud, though. She finished her undergrad work in a little under three years and was immediately accepted into the graduate film program. Long hours, intense competition, relentless professors…and she’d loved every minute of it. In fact, her life would have been nothing but school if she hadn’t met Ken.

They’d met at a party, and so far their lives meshed perfectly. Ken was as involved with his restaurant as she was with her films. Their rare free time they spent together, and Lisa had become accustomed to sitting at one of the empty tables at Oxygen studying or annotating a script while Ken worked out details with the construction crew or his staff.

They’d become comfortable together, and she liked the feeling. In so many ways the relationship was different than what she’d had with her past boyfriends. For one thing, he insisted that he didn’t want to have sex until after marriage, although they’d done everything but.

Lisa found it hard to believe that a man as sexy and alluring as Ken was a virgin, but she’d never asked him outright if that was the case. Rather, she’d agreed with his parameters. She adored Ken, but she didn’t intend to let anything—including thoughts of marriage—get between her and her goal of making it in the movie business. And if that meant keeping some tiny modicum of distance between them, well, so be it.

She took another sip of wine, watching as Ken finished chatting with Chris. Then he turned back to her and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, the simple gesture somehow more intimate that a kiss.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, as she fought a blush. She usually pulled her annoyingly thick hair back in a pony-tail, but for tonight, she’d gone all out and had it done up in a chignon by the hotel’s stylist. She had to admit, it looked great. “How are you holding up?” he asked. “Tired?”

“Not at all.”

He raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “You haven’t slept in days. Are you sure you’re not a tiny bit tired?”

While Ken had been readying for his opening, she’d been awake for two solid days shooting the last few scenes of her thesis film. She’d pushed her actors and crew hard, but they’d delivered.

Maybe it was simply a student film, but she was producing and directing it, and that was more than just a baby step. It was a giant leap toward the one thing she’d wanted for her whole life—producing real, honest-to-goodness Hollywood movies. “I’m operating on adrenaline. My film, your restaurant. I’ve got energy to burn.”

“Glad to hear it.” He looked away for a moment to wave at someone across the room, and when he looked back, his stormy-blue eyes were dark with undisguised passion. “I was hoping you’d have some energy left over after this is through.” He pressed a card key into her hand. “The hotel put me in the penthouse for the night. If you get tired, head on up and I’ll meet you there.”

She nodded, clutching the key in her hand as he bent and kissed her. He tasted of champagne, and she trembled as she pulled his head closer to her own, deepening their kiss even as she fought the sudden prick of tears at her eyes. Ken worked some mysterious alchemy on her soul, and she knew that if she let him get too close, he was the one person in the world for whom she’d consider abandoning her dreams.

In a way, the knowledge was warm and reassuring. But, mostly, it terrified her.

He pulled away, one finger under her chin tilting her head up. “You okay?”

“Fine.” She smiled. “I’m terrific.”

“I need to go mingle.” He presented his arm. “Care to join me?”

“You go on. I guess I am a little tired. I just want to sit here and watch everyone fawn over you.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ll see you in a bit, then.”

As soon as he moved away, the crowd engulfed him. Yes, Chris was right. In five years, Ken Harper was going to be the uncontested king of the Los Angeles restaurant scene.

She turned back to the bar, then took an idle sip of wine.

“Something wrong?”

She looked into Chris’s concerned face, then realized she was frowning. “No. I’m fine. Just tired.”

He looked dubious, but one of the waitresses came to the service area, and he left to fill her orders. In truth, she wasn’t fine. Ken was firmly on his path to success, but she was on the verge of graduating and still hadn’t found decent work. She’d had offers, of course, but mostly the jobs had involved working long hours as part of the crew for a low-budget film. Not bad for starting out, but Lisa wanted to be a development executive at one of the major studios before she was thirty—and with a goal like that, she needed to land a stellar, high-profile job right out of the gate.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t yet found one.

Determined to pull herself out of her funk, she twisted back around to watch the crowd. She tried to find Ken, but instead found herself sucking in a startled breath when she saw Drake Tyrell—one of the country’s hottest independent producers—heading right toward her.

“Miss Neal.” He slipped onto the empty stool next to her, then signaled to Chris to freshen his drink. Through the whole process, she just sat there gaping, awed that he even remembered who she was. “It’s good to see you again.”

She swallowed. “Thank you. Sir. I mean…it’s good to see you, too.” She fought a cringe, knowing she sounded like a tongue-tied fool. “I’m surprised you remember me.” He’d taught a weekend seminar, and she’d been one of two hundred students crammed into a small auditorium. Hardly the opportunity to stand out.

“Of course I remember.” Chris brought him a fresh drink and he raised the glass in toast. “To successfully getting through film school. Hell of an accomplishment.”

They clinked glasses, and he leaned back, eyeing her speculatively. Her nerves were about to shift into overdrive when he said, “I read your script.”

“Only Angels?”

When he nodded, her stomach twisted. She wondered not only why he’d read the thing, but what he’d thought of it. She’d written it more than a year ago and entered it in a contest at her professor’s urging.

“I’m one of the sponsors of the fellowship program,” he said, answering one of her unasked questions. “You have a flair for comedy. The script was charming.”

Her smile felt as watery as her knees, and she kept a firm hold on the back of the bar stool. “I’m glad you thought so,” she said, thrilled to find her voice was functioning. “It didn’t win,” she added, then immediately kicked herself for sounding petty.

He laughed, and she felt even smaller, at least until he said, “Not the fellowship, no.” He leaned closer, in front of her to grab a napkin off the bar. “But it just may have won you a job.”

At that, she almost lost her balance, and she grabbed onto the solid mahogany of the bar. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve been talking with your professors, looking over your work. I’ve got a job for you, if you want it.”

“A job?” she repeated stupidly. “Working with you?”

His grin was slow—probably he was used to people being in utter awe of him. “Of course. That is, if you think you’re up for it.”

Up for it? Of course she was up for it. The one thing she wanted most in the world had just been dropped in her lap. A job. A real career working with the Drake Tyrell.

“Of course, you’ll have to move to New York.”

She blinked. “Of course,” she murmured, trying not to scowl. How stupid of her to not have realized right off. As did Woody Allen and a handful of other producer/directors, Tyrell worked out of New York, refusing to set foot in Los Angeles unless absolutely necessary.

She didn’t have a clue why he avoided California. Fear of earthquakes, an allergy to smog, an intense hatred of freeways…who knew? Didn’t much matter. The bottom line for her was simple—work for Tyrell, move to New York. Cut, mark it, that’s a wrap.

He watched her, silent, not pressing, but neither did he offer to give her time to make up her mind. People like Tyrell expected action—folks jumped when they said “Boo.” If she wanted the job, she had to let him know before he walked away. Every instinct in her body told her to jump at the chance. This was her career, after all.

And then there was Ken.

Her eyes welled, and she blinked back the tears, annoyed with herself for being so emotional. She made a point of being perfectly sensible where her career was concerned, but that didn’t change the fact that she and Ken had become remarkably close, and it was going to tear her up inside to move so far away.

But she’d worked her tail off for years—all with the goal of one day being a full-fledged player in the Hollywood scene. She had to grab her chance while she could. Opportunity was pounding on her door; she needed to open the dead bolt and let it in.

Surely Ken would understand. After all, just this very night he’d taken the first step toward realizing his own ambition. And it wasn’t as if they were engaged or anything. Besides, she wasn’t breaking up with him, just moving away. She’d come back when she’d made something of a name for herself—hopefully sooner rather than later.

The bottom line was, she had to take the job. If she didn’t, for the rest of her life she’d wonder “What if?”

“Lisa?” At Tyrell’s voice, she sat up straighter, pulling her thoughts together into one cohesive package. “Are you interested?”

A real job, working for Drake Tyrell. Scary, but undeniably enticing. And everything you’ve ever dreamed of wrapped up in one package. There was no way she could say no, no way at all. This was her dream. Her life.

Taking a deep breath to calm the butterflies in her stomach, she looked Drake in the eyes. “Absolutely.” She held out her hand for him to shake. “I won’t disappoint you.”

1

Five years later…

AS ALWAYS during the lunch rush, every seat at Oxygen was full, and the hostess was issuing pagers to the intrepid souls who hadn’t thought to make reservations and were now faced with a two-hour wait. At least at lunch they had the option of waiting. During the dinner hours those without reservations were politely turned away, and even clients with reservations usually waited at least half an hour.

The difficulty in getting a table didn’t seem to bother the patrons. For that matter, it seemed to add to the clamor to be among those who dined regularly at the trendy restaurant—which, of course, was exactly what Ken had planned.

Still, the crowds were intense, and when he had first realized just how huge a success the restaurant was going to be, Ken had considered expanding. Brant Tucker, who owned the Bellisimo Hotel, had agreed to let the restaurant take over almost the entire mezzanine, and Ken had even gone so far as to hire an architect.

In the end, though, he’d decided to keep his firstborn just the way it was. More than one review had raved about the cozy atmosphere, and Ken wasn’t inclined to take risks with the establishment that had literally launched his career.

Instead he’d compromised by opening a north location in Malibu and a south location in Marina Del Rey. With more capacity, the satellites were soon doing more business than the original location. But the first restaurant held a special place in Ken’s heart. And even after he’d opened a half dozen other restaurants with different names, he spent most lunch hours and weekend nights at the original Oxygen.

There were days when he still couldn’t get his mind around the extent of his success. Five years ago he’d mortgaged himself to the hilt to get it up and running, but he’d actually pulled it off—and in a big way. Not bad for a college dropout from Blanco, Texas. He wished his parents were still alive to see it, but he knew they’d have been proud.

It was his mother to whom he owed his success. She convinced his father to open a BBQ restaurant on the town square when Ken was just a toddler. He grew up in that kitchen, helping his mom when he could, getting underfoot and generally being a pest most of the time. But he saw how the town folk gravitated to the humble spot. And by the time he was in high school, On the Square had become the local after-school, after-work, after-church hangout.

It didn’t take Ken long to realize he wanted to create something like that. A miniature town meeting hall. A place folks could come and enjoy the food, drink a little, dance a little, and have a good time.

He’d started out by studying business at the University of Texas, earning his tuition by working in every restaurant that would have him. At first he’d planned to open a simple restaurant in Austin, figuring its laid-back community would be perfect for what he’d had in mind.

But then one drunk driver had changed everything. Suddenly his parents were dead. His home had been ripped out from under him, and he’d felt more lost than he’d ever imagined possible. Uncomfortable in his own skin, he’d dropped out of college and escaped to the West coast, drowning his grief in a newly fueled ambition. He may have started out only wanting to operate a dive reminiscent of his mother’s place, but he’d accomplished so much more. He’d become a rich man, powerful in the industry.

As usual, this afternoon he was moving among the tables, shaking hands and greeting the attorneys and brokers who made up the majority of the regular lunch crowd. He was chatting with a newly elected judge when he noticed one of the restaurant’s publicists, Marty Talbot, waving at him from a two-top across the room. After excusing himself, Ken headed over, greeting a few regulars along the way.

“I didn’t expect to see you today, Marty. I figured you’d be tired of me after we spent all day yesterday together in a conference room.”

The older man chuckled, his silver-gray hair giving him a congenial appearance that belied his slick negotiating skills. “I never get tired of a man who pays my bills so promptly.” Marty gestured to the empty seat, and Ken sat down. “Actually, Alicia asked me to pitch her show to you one more time.”

Ken stifled a groan. A former news anchor, Alicia Duncan now had her own morning talk show. Apparently she didn’t have anything better to fill the air with, so she’d taken to bugging Ken.

He shook his head, annoyed that he had to revisit what he’d thought was a dead issue. “I told both of you yesterday, I’m not interested.”

“Fair enough. I just wanted to make sure you’d fully considered her proposition before turning it down.”

“I’ve considered,” Ken said, trying to hide his irritation.

“Have you?” Marty asked.

“Come on, Marty. You of all people should know how I feel about publicity.” An old college friend of his father’s, Marty had known Ken his entire life.

Marty waved his fork in Ken’s direction. “Promotion’s a good thing, son. It’s not like you’d be falling in with the enemy.”

“That’s not the point. I built this restaurant up my way, and I’ve always advertised it my way. So far, I think my plan has worked like a charm.”

All of his advertising focused on the food and the mystique that had grown up around the Oxygen name. No testimonials, no personal appearances, no tacky commercials filmed inside the restaurant, nothing that might diminish the aura that Ken had worked so hard to build.

And since every restaurant he’d launched had been a remarkable success, Ken had no intention of now screwing with his advertising plan. As his dad used to say, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

Marty just shook his head and took another bite of salad without saying a word. Marty’s habit of suddenly dropping out of conversations drove Ken crazy. And this time Ken was certain the older man was doing it on purpose, presumably to give Ken time to once again ponder Alicia’s proposal.

One pernicious side effect of Ken’s success was his semi-celebrity status—a status that unfortunately attracted the Alicias of the world. But just because the press now treated him as a celebrity, that didn’t mean he had to encourage such nonsense. So when Alicia had suggested filming a segment of her show in the kitchen—and having the restaurant’s hailed executive chef, Tim Sutton, whip up one of his famous creations on camera—Ken had flatly and resolutely said no. It wasn’t an answer he intended to change, no matter how much Marty or Alicia pleaded.

Across from him, Marty finished his salad without saying a word. Not until the waiter slipped over and silently removed the empty plate, did Marty look up and meet Ken’s eyes.

“Go ahead,” Ken said, his voice resigned. Years of experience told him that there was no getting rid of Marty without first hearing him out. “Finish what you came here to say.”

“It would bring in a broader clientele.”

“I’m content with the clientele I’ve got.”

“Then do it as a favor. For Alicia.”

Ken ran his fingers through his hair, trying to figure out what the hell Marty was talking about. “Excuse me?”

Marty just shook his head, then ripped open a sugar packet and dumped it into his coffee.

The clack of the spoon against the coffee cup grated on Ken’s nerves. “Marty…”

“Well, son, it’s just that I think you ought to think of the girl,” he said, signaling for a waiter, “especially after the way you two broke up.”

Ken swallowed a burst of anger as he wondered what kind of nonsense Alicia had been spouting. “For one thing, we weren’t dating. We went out to dinner twice. That doesn’t make a relationship.” They’d slept together, true, but both of them had known it wasn’t going anywhere. “And even if we were, I’m not changing my philosophy for anybody. Not you, and certainly not Alicia. Nobody. I’m off limits. My restaurant’s off limits. And that’s just the way it is.”

“If you’re sure…”

A waiter, Jake, came over.

“I’m sure,” Ken said.

“It would make a great tie-in with the anniversary. Five years next Saturday since you opened this place.” He let the thought linger, then turned to Jake and started discussing the day’s dessert selection.

Ken’s stomach twisted. He knew perfectly well what day next Saturday was. Every year at this time he struggled through his own private hell. When the anniversary of Oxygen’s opening rolled around, it was as if someone opened a memory floodgate and he was sucked out with the tide.

Five years ago he’d thought he had it so good. The opening of his first restaurant, a woman he adored and whom he thought adored him. But he’d been a fool. He’d stood right in this very room with an engagement ring in his pocket, so sure she wanted a life together as much as he did. Two days later, she’d left for New York with another man. Years later, the memory still rankled.

He’d wanted to wait until after they were married to make love, but apparently that wasn’t enough for Lisa, and soon enough Ken heard the rumors and saw the pictures in the tabloids. She and Drake Tyrell were an item, a regular fixture in all the Manhattan hot spots.

The turn of events had completely sideswiped him—and Ken didn’t consider himself anyone’s fool.

What bothered him most, though, was that after five years, he still couldn’t get her out of his head. If he saw her again, he didn’t know if he’d want to run to her or away from her. He hoped the latter. The thought that, after so much time, Lisa Neal still had power over him was more than a little disturbing. And yet it was true. The woman had gotten under his skin and stayed there.

“I’ve decided to skip dessert,” Marty said. “How about you? Have you made a decision about Alicia’s program?”

Keeping his expression mild, Ken stood. “I’m skipping it, too,” he said. “And this discussion is over.” He told Jake to comp Marty’s meal, then headed back through the tables toward the kitchen, needing some down time to relax and regroup.

Ken wasn’t the type to feel sorry for himself, but one week out of the year didn’t seem too outrageous an indulgence. The other fifty-one weeks he focused on his business and generally got on with his life. But despite the parade of women that came with his pseudo-celebrity status, so far he hadn’t met a woman who affected him the way Lisa had. Half of him prayed that one day he would, so that he could finally forget about her. The other half wanted to hang on to the memory of her forever. Unfortunately, though, right on the heels of the memory was always the now-familiar anger that burned a hole in his gut every time he thought about the way she’d left him.

“I know that look,” Tim said. “That’s your one-week-before-the-anniversary look.”

The familiar smells and sounds of the kitchen accosted his senses and lifted his spirits—the clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of oil in a skillet, the gentle hiss of steam rising, the pungent aroma of minced garlic and diced onions. Despite himself, Ken’s lips curved into a grin. “I think I’m entitled.”

“Entitled? To what? To mope?” Tim looked up from where he was supervising his sous-chef, his face ruddy from the heat of the stove. Behind him, the assistants were doing prep work and the expeditor was finishing up the final orders for the latecomers to lunch.

“The woman I loved turned down a marriage proposal and told me she was moving to New York five years ago,” Ken said, making sure his voice was low enough for only Tim. “A year later, she dumped me and shacked up with some Hollywood big shot. I think I’m entitled to a touch of melancholy.”

Before Lisa left, Ken had been absolutely certain of the way his life was going to go down. He was going to live in a bungalow near the beach with his filmmaker wife and their beautiful kids, and they’d spend Sunday mornings trying to outdo each other with exotic and bizarre omelet variations. Weekend afternoons, they’d go see movies, then sit on the deck overlooking the ocean and analyze the heck out of the film they’d just seen while the kids played in the surf. During the evenings, he and Lisa would mingle among the Hollywood elite as they dined at a Ken Harper restaurant.

It had never once occurred to him that Lisa had a different view of the world.

Of course, they’d never seriously talked about marriage, although his insistence that they not sleep together until after they were married had meant that the topic had come up once or twice. The fact was, he’d wanted to bury himself inside of her more times than he could count. But he’d been down that road before, though never with a woman like Lisa. He’d thought she was special. He’d thought she was the one. And cliché or not, he’d wanted his ring on her hand before they’d shared a bed.

When she’d walked out, he’d been shaken to the very core. He’d begun to second-guess every decision as he lost the control he so prided himself on. His business acumen faltered, and he’d made some bad decisions. Decisions that had set him back months. He didn’t intend to lose control like that ever again.

Tim was still staring at him, an almost sorrowful expression on his usually jovial face.

“What?” Ken demanded.

“You need to move on.”

Ken crossed his arms and leaned against the stainless-steel prep area, trying to find a retort. But nothing came. Tim was right, but he didn’t have the faintest idea how to go about it.

Lord knew, he’d cursed Lisa enough, especially on those rare occasions when he’d let the bitterness and humiliation get the better of him. He’d cursed and yelled and ranted until sheer exhaustion pulled him back. And still she was there, just under his skin. Part of him.

So how the hell could he move on?

Tim turned to Kelly, his sous-chef, then added some herbs from a nearby bowl to her roux, and Ken inhaled the wonderful scent. “Smells great,” he said, partly to change to subject, but mostly because it was true.

“Of course.” Tim’s grin broadened shamelessly. “It’s my recipe.”

Ken let his gaze wander over the kitchen, not really seeing, as his thoughts drifted back to Lisa. “The thing is…” Ken trailed off, wishing he hadn’t even opened his mouth.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Tim headed toward the stockroom, looking behind him to make sure Ken was following. “Spill it,” he said when they were out of earshot of the rest of the staff.

“It’s just…I don’t know. I guess, when I think about her, even after all this time, I’m furious with her…but I also wonder what the hell I did wrong. You know. What I should have done differently.”

“I repeat—you need to move on.”

Ken brushed aside the comment. “I know, I know. But I’m not just talking about her. I’m talking about me. Not just with Lisa, but with my life.” The truth was, she’d left him with a legacy of self-doubt, and it burned.

“Never second-guess yourself because of a woman, my friend. That’s the path to an early grave—or at least a psychotic episode.”

Ken chuckled. “Yeah? Well, you may be right about that.”

“And speaking of moving on…I interviewed the cutest pastry chef last week.” Tim kept his expression totally serious as he checked a produce list. “Now there’s a cream puff—”

“Knock it off,” Ken said with a grin.

Tim cracked a smile. “Just watching out for my best friend. You should date more.”

“Me? You’re the one who hasn’t had a date since Melinda left. I’ve had so many dates I should buy stock in a little black book company.”

“First,” Tim said as they left the stockroom and headed for the break room, “we’re not talking about me. Second, you haven’t had dates, you’ve had physical encounters. Hit-and-run dating.”

He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the Formica-topped table, his large, former-NFL-linebacker body looking out of place on the small chair. If his knee hadn’t blown out, Tim probably would have made it far in football…and Ken would be out one hell of a chef.

“I mean, have you tried to get to know any of those women?” Tim asked.

Ken cocked his head and tried to look stern. “I can’t say I’m comfortable being psychoanalyzed while my head chef sits in the break room right as the lunch rush is wrapping up.”

“No?” Tim took another slug of coffee. “Well, I’m a perfectionist, you know. And I don’t think I can work until I’m sure you aren’t making a mess out of your life.”

Ken pinched the bridge of his nose, half in irritation and half in amusement. “I appreciate your concern, but my life is fine. I’m not holed up in some dark room pining away for Lisa. I hardly think about her—”

Tim snorted.

“—except for this time of year. And I am dating.”

“You’re not seeing anyone seriously.”

“Neither are you.”

“We’re not—”

“Talking about you. I know. But maybe we should.”

“It’s only been a year,” Tim said. “And it’s not like I have a ton of free time.”

“Touché.”

Tim sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. “All right. You win. But just tell me one thing.” He looked Ken in the eye and waited for his nod. “You doin’ okay?”

“Sure,” Ken said, not sure if it was the truth or a lie. “I’m absolutely fine.”

ALICIA DUNCAN hated to fail. Particularly when the failure was known, as was this most recent setback. Now she sat perfectly straight in front of the mirror as her producer poured out his litany of complaints. A ponytailed bimbette fussed near her, supposedly fixing Alicia’s makeup, but clearly eavesdropping.

Well, wasn’t that just great? The bimbette would probably run to the phone the second Alicia left, and soon enough the gossip would be everywhere—Alicia was on the outs with her producer because she couldn’t land a piddly-ass little story about restaurant mogul Ken Harper. What made the defeat even more grating was that she and Ken had actually dated last summer, but he still wouldn’t do her this one favor.

She closed her eyes and pressed a finger to her temple. She’d won two Emmys, for crying out loud. She really didn’t need this garbage.

“Have you even heard a word I’ve said?” Gavin’s irritated voice filtered through her thoughts, and she looked up, the reflection of her eyes meeting his in the lighted mirror.

“I don’t need to hear your every word, sweetie. I got your point twenty minutes ago when you first opened your mouth.” The bimbette dabbed her forehead with a powder puff, and Alicia jerked forward, glaring. “You. Out. Now.”

The girl backed away, her eyes wide, her teeth digging into her lower lip.

“And if you say a word about this to anyone, it’ll be your job.” She flashed her most charming smile, the one that had gotten her an anchor slot on a network affiliate. “Understand?”

The girl nodded, then escaped out the door. Alicia took a deep breath, then spun her chair around to face Gavin.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “You certainly have a way with people.”

“Don’t give me any crap. I’m in a bad mood, and you’re on my list.” She had better things to do than to sit and listen to Gavin complain about how she hadn’t managed to land a story. Especially since this story, about the fifth anniversary of Oxygen, was such an uninteresting fluff piece. Ken had flat-out refused her offer to have him and his chef on the program. A little banter, a little cooking demonstration. Lightweight stuff, and great publicity for him.

“So why’d he say no?”

“How the hell should I know?” His refusal had totally pissed her off, but she wasn’t about to admit that to Gavin. Instead, she just squinted toward the mirror then ran her finger under her lip, wiping off a stray bit of lipstick. “He’s an idiot?”

“I don’t think so. The man clawed his way up from nothing to become the hottest restaurateur in Southern California. I suspect at least a modicum of savvy, if not downright intelligence.”

She bit back a snarl, not interested in analyzing Ken Harper. “Who cares? He doesn’t want to do it. End of story.”

“Is it?”

She twisted around to look him in the eye. “Why are you so intent on going after Ken Harper?”

Gavin shook his head. “I’m not. I’m intent on going after a story. Harper’s been the unchallenged king of cuisine for years, yet no one’s ever managed to get him to consent to an interview inside his restaurant. We manage that, we get ratings. We get ratings, you get a better slot.” He held his hands out to his side. “I’m only thinking of you, babe.”

“It’s only worth pursuing if there’s a story, Gavin. The man’s as dull as dishwater.” A lie, especially if they were talking about in bed. But she wasn’t feeling particularly charitable at the moment.

“Or maybe you didn’t want to return to the place of your former defeat.”

That was another reason Gavin drove her nuts—he knew her just a little too well. “Don’t be ridiculous. We went out a couple of times, but I dumped him,” she lied. “Believe me, Ken Harper isn’t even in my league.”

“So what’s stopping you from doing the story?”

“There is no story.”

“Are you sure?”

Irritated, she spun the chair back to face the mirror and saw him watching her in the reflection. She hated admitting it, but maybe Gavin was right. Maybe Ken was hiding something. If he was, it would feel damn good to be the reporter who aired the remarkable Ken Harper’s dirty laundry.

“Or maybe you do think it’s out of your league?”

“Not hardly,” she said tightly as she made up her mind. She met his eyes in the mirror and smiled sweetly. “You want the dirt on Harper? Then that’s exactly what you’ll get.”

2

THE MANHATTAN OFFICE of Avenue F Films was more spartan than Lisa had expected. A polished metal-and-glass table served as a reception desk, and a few uncomfortable-looking chairs made up the waiting area. An Oriental-style tapestry covered one wall, while the other was decorated with geometrically shaped mirrors. At the far end of the room, frosted-glass panels separated the reception area from the boss’s lair. Overall, the room gave the impression of too much money and not enough taste.

Lisa grimaced. She wasn’t there to criticize Winston Miller’s decorating skills; she was there to interview for a much needed job. The place could be knee-deep in seventies-style shag, and she wouldn’t complain.

Her back straight, she moved forward, letting the frosted-glass door—complete with an ornately etched F—swing quietly shut. She flashed what she hoped was a confident smile at the receptionist, then waited for the girl to finish her phone call. When the petite redhead finally looked up, Lisa’s pasted-on smile had almost faded. “I’m Lisa Neal, Mr. Miller’s four o’clock.”

Apparently not one for conversation, the receptionist gestured toward one of the torture-chamber chairs, her attention now directed at her fingernails. Lisa checked her watch. Four o’clock on the dot. “Is he—”

“Running late,” the girl said, pulling a nail file from a drawer. “Just have a seat.”

Great. Lisa moved across the room toward the chairs, glancing at her reflection in the mirrors as she walked. The chin-length bob she wore had the benefit of not only being easy to fix, but of looking professional. The suit was a cheap designer knockoff, and the shoes were leftovers of her more cash-flush days. Still, the outfit was sharp enough that it bolstered the businesswoman look. Overall, not too bad, all things considered.

As much as she hated needing work, she hated even more looking like she needed work. So much so that she’d almost splurged and put a new outfit on her one credit card that still had some room. But common sense had won out. She hadn’t worked steadily in more than a year, and the money she made from temping didn’t justify a new outfit, especially when she might need her credit card to buy food.

Still, the whole dress-for-success concept made a lot of sense, and yesterday after she’d received her best friend Greg’s message that he’d landed her an interview with Winston Miller, Lisa’d spent an entire afternoon prowling the garment district for something that would at least make it look as if she wasn’t destitute. One thing she’d learned after years of working on the fringes of the entertainment industry, the more someone looked as though they needed the work, the less likely they were to get it.

Smoothing her skirt, she sat on the hideous chair, her tailbone boring into the hard metal. She pulled her Day-Timer planner out of her purse and tried to look as if she had a schedule to keep. She wished she knew more about what Winston needed, but Greg had only left a note on the refrigerator. Though they shared an apartment, they were hardly ever home at the same time, and since he was in the middle of rehearsing for an off-off-off-off Broadway show, she’d been unable to catch him before the interview.

She shot a glance toward the receptionist, who didn’t even look her way. So Lisa spent the next thirty minutes doodling and making anagrams out of her name, until she’d wasted so much time she was beginning to get irritated. Trying for haughty, she stood up, tucked her planner under her arm, and marched toward the anorexic receptionist.

The woman blinked, but didn’t say a word.

“It’s been almost an hour,” Lisa said, trying to remain polite. “I have other meetings that I really can’t—”

“No problem.”

“Great. Thanks.”

The girl poised her pen over the open appointment book. “When would you like to reschedule?”

“Oh, uh,” Lisa stammered. “I guess I’ll have to check my schedule.”

The girl raised an eyebrow and waited, and Lisa knew perfectly well that Miller’s receptionist wasn’t buying it. The question now was, did she keep her pride and walk out, or did she fall to her knees and beg?

“Well?” the girl asked, the end of her pen tapping the appointment book.

“Right.” Lisa started flipping pages. She’d reschedule for tomorrow. That way she’d lose twenty-four hours in her job hunt, but she’d save a tiny bit of pride. “How about tomorrow?”

“No go.” The girl trailed the tip of the pen down the page, then flipped over a few days. “I can squeeze you in next Tuesday.”

So much for pride. Time for some serious begging. “Um, listen—”

“Miss Neal!”

She spun toward the source of the nasal voice, thrilled to be getting a reprieve from her fib.

“Come in, come in.” Winston Miller practically bounded toward her, shook her hand heartily, then led her back into his office. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Been on the phone with Los Angeles all morning.”

Lisa stifled a smile. As far as she knew, there were several million people in L.A.; she doubted Miller had been chatting with all of them.

“So, Greg tells me you’re the man for this job.” He motioned her toward a cushy chair as he slid behind his desk. “I understand you’ve got quite a range of experience.”

“That’s true,” she said, wondering how much her friend had told him. She’d known Greg for almost five years, ever since he’d had a bit part in a Drake Tyrell film that she’d associate produced. Flamboyant and opinionated, Greg had a wicked sense of humor that got her through some rough times during filming, and they’d spent hours eating bad food at the craft services table. By the time the shoot was over, they’d become fast friends and roommates.

Only Greg knew how scattershot her production experience had been. Certainly, she’d never told her family how bad times had become. From script supervisor to art director to property master, she’d held all sorts of jobs she’d never expected and didn’t want. Hardly what she’d anticipated five years ago when she’d followed Tyrell to New York with delusions of producing award-winning films. Still, the odd jobs paid the bills—at least until recently when work had seemed to dry up. Now, though, she couldn’t imagine which aspect of her background Greg thought was worthy of Miller’s attention.

Miller leaned back, his leather chair squeaking. “What did Greg tell you about the job?”

“He told me you’re producing a sequel to The Velvet Bed and that you’ve got some key positions to fill.” The erotic adventure, set in Manhattan’s hot spots, had been a surprise hit, solidifying Avenue F’s reputation as the most important independent film company in the business.

“Half right. I am doing the sequel.” He picked a stack of paper up off his desk and riffled the pages. “I want to start production in about nine months.”

“Oh.” Lisa tried to hide her confusion. “Greg thought you might have a position for me. If you’re still putting together your team, I’ve got several associate producer credits—”

“From when you were with Tyrell?”

“Well, yeah.”

He nodded but didn’t say anything, and she felt a familiar surge of anger rise to the surface. Never in a million years would she have guessed that simply being associated with Tyrell would have so sullied her reputation. But it was her own damn fault. She’d been a naive little girl from Idaho when she’d left Los Angeles with stars in her eyes, so sure that working for Tyrell would put her on the path to fame and fortune.

She’d thought he admired her talent, and by the time she was settled in Manhattan, she’d thought he genuinely cared for her. But Tyrell didn’t care for anyone but himself, and back then she’d just been too starry-eyed to see it. Now she had to live with the backlash from her foolishness, and it drove her nuts that her career was tainted because Tyrell had thrown his life down the toilet.

The whole thing had been a huge scandal. One of the major Hollywood studios had pumped a ton of money into one of Tyrell’s films—a picture everyone involved expected to be a blockbuster. About the time they were supposed to start production, Tyrell started snorting the budget up his nose—and then demanding more money from the studio. He shot some footage, but it was garbage, and eventually the studio shut the project down. Tyrell’s company filed bankruptcy, and Tyrell fled to London in disgrace.

In the film world it was a debacle of Heaven’s Gate proportions. And, unfortunately, Lisa had a producer credit. No real power, of course, since Tyrell never let go of control, but by the time she’d learned about Tyrell’s drug problem and realized he was sinking fast, she’d been stuck. And now her reputation was just as smeared as his.

Miller was still looking at her with that expression of distrust she knew well from so many job interviews. Tyrell had screwed her, and good.

She tried to tamp down her anger. “I’ve worked my tail off, and I’m good. After I left Tyrell, I produced and directed at Cornerstone.” Of course, her films had a shoestring budget, lots of car explosions, and went straight to video, but it was something. Goodness knows, that was what she’d told her mom every time she’d called. “After Cornerstone went under, I got a crew position on one of the late-night network talk shows. And for the last year, I’ve been working a variety of jobs in the industry.”

She didn’t mention that she’d been laid off from the network job due to budget cuts, that lately “variety” meant temping at video rental stores, and that she was now trying her damnedest to get some work lined up in Los Angeles so that she could move back to the coast and start over with her film career. “I’m perfectly qualified. No matter what—”

“Location scout.”

She blinked, trying to follow the conversation. Was he suggesting she work as his scout? Track down the various locations for his next film and get commitments from the property owners? Except for her thesis film and a music video a friend had produced and directed years ago, she’d never done any scouting. “I’m not sure I’m—”

“If I like your work, I’ll set you up as my line producer.”

She snapped her mouth shut, overlooking her irritation at the way he kept interrupting her. The line producer was in charge of the day-to-day operations once filming got under way. Not a bad job, but not her ambition. She wanted to be doing the big-picture stuff. Working with writers and directors. Pulling the project together and getting the financing off the ground. The nitty-grit stuff. The fun stuff.

Still, if he was willing to bargain, maybe she could wrangle a job that would put her back on the map. “I’m not interested in line producer,” she said slowly, knowing her gamble was risky.

He peered at her, the flesh on his forehead creasing. “I’m not sure we’re communicating here. You won’t be my anything unless you’re my scout. And even then, only if you do the quality job I need.”

She shook her head, unable to figure out why he’d be so gung-ho on having her scout his locations. “Why me?”

Miller shrugged. “Greg assured me you’re the one I need. He’s a good actor, a good friend, and I trust the kid.”

“But…I….” She sat up straighter, trying to regroup. What on earth was Greg thinking?

“He tells me you lived in L.A. Know it like the back of your hand.”

“Los Angeles?” He wasn’t making sense. “I haven’t lived in Los Angeles in years.” Sad, but true. And Greg knew it. She was missing something, but she didn’t know what.

The look of anticipation on his face faded, only to be replaced with a cold, wary expression, as if now he couldn’t quite figure out what she was doing there. Too late, Lisa realized her mistake. The Velvet Bed had been set in Manhattan’s hot spots, combining the fictional erotic journey of the lead characters with the real Manhattan landscape. The combination of the real and the fictitious had sparked nationwide interest and certainly contributed to the film’s unexpected success. Miller hadn’t said so out loud, but Lisa would bet money that the sequel would follow the same formula—only this time in L.A.

Which meant she’d just blown her chance at getting the job Greg had so carefully lined up for her. Damn.

“I’m going to set the sequel in either San Francisco or Los Angeles, depending on where I can lock in the more interesting locations. Of course, my preference is Los Angeles, and Greg seemed to think you could help with L.A. But if you don’t know the city—”

“Oh, I know it. I lived there for years.”

He looked dubious. “I need someone who knows it today.”

“I know Los Angeles,” she repeated. “I go back all the time.” That was a flat-out lie, and she hoped he didn’t call her on it. She appeased her guilt simply because she knew that if she got the job she wouldn’t rest until she really did know everything there was to know about the City of Angels.

He nodded, but didn’t say a word. Then he slipped a cigar out of a humidor on his desk, cut off the end, and lit up without asking if she minded. She did, but she kept her mouth shut. After a few puffs he aimed the cigar at her. “I’m gonna be straight with you.”

“I appreciate that,” she said, trying to keep her tone even.

“I keep my office in New York, but I know people on the coast.” He leaned over, gesturing with the cigar. “Finding a location scout’s not a problem. Finding a scout who can get me access to the places I want to be…that’s another story.”

She tried to play it cool as her mind raced ahead at a thousand miles an hour, trying to figure out what the devil Greg could have told him. What places in Los Angeles did he think she had special access to? “What locations are you interested in?”

“Any place conducive to the tone of the film. Erotic. Cutting edge. Heavy on the ambience. I don’t know. Read the damn script. That’s for you to figure out.” He gestured with the cigar again. “Except for one. I’ve got one location in mind for the bulk of the story, and that’s why you’re here now.”

“What location?” she asked, more confused than ever.

“Greg said you’d be able to get the crew inside to film at Oxygen. If you can do that, you’re hired.”

A numbing cold swept over her. “Oxygen?” Her voice was little more than a croak. “You want permission to film in the restaurant?”

“You can arrange it, yes? Greg said you know the owner, Kenneth Hooper.”

“Harper,” she corrected automatically as the room seemed to close in on her. “And yes…I know him.”

Miller leaned back in his chair, his arms spread. “Excellent. So you can do it? You’ll be my new location scout?”

She swallowed, knowing that the odds of Ken wanting to help her were very, very low. But she was out of options. If she couldn’t pull it off, Miller would fire her and she wouldn’t be any worse off than she was right then. But if she could convince Ken to help her…and if she could find some more locations for Miller…well, if she played her cards right, she could be back on her feet within a year.

“Ms. Neal? An answer today would be good.”

She looked up and smiled brightly. “Sorry. Just running through possible locations in my head.”

“So you’ll do it?”

She held his gaze, careful to keep an expressionless poker face. “On one condition.”

He cocked his head. “Condition?”

Her hands trembled, and she held them tight in her lap. “If I pull this off, I want a producer credit. Not associate producer, not line producer. Producer.”

For a long moment he said nothing, just stared at her.

“I want my career back, Mr. Miller.” Her voice shook, and she dropped her eyes, sure he was about to tell her to get the hell out of his office.

Leather creaked as he shifted in his chair, and she looked up to see him looking at her quizzically. “Tyrell screwed a lot of people, Ms. Neal. But there were a lot of folks in bed with him who deserved to be screwed. If I do this for you, I’m taking a hell of a risk.”

“I wasn’t one of the ones who deserved it. I worked my tail off for Tyrell and don’t have a damn thing to show for it.”

He tapped his thumb against his chin, his mouth turning down into a frown. After a moment he stopped and looked at her, his expression stern. “Ms. Neal?”

She fought a cringe. “Yes?”

“It looks like we have a deal. Don’t disappoint me.”

“I CAN’T BELIEVE I’m really doing this. I must be a total idiot. It’s never going to work. What was I thinking?” Lisa stopped tossing clothes into her suitcase long enough to glare at Greg. “For that matter, what were you thinking?”

Nonplussed, he leaned back against the doorjamb and popped the top on a Dr. Brown’s cream soda. “I was thinking you needed the work.” He pointed toward her bed and the pile of clothes. “They’ll travel better if you fold them.”

She was in no mood for packing lessons, and purposefully crumpled her favorite dress and shoved it into her luggage.

“It’s your laundry bill.”

“I’m not worried about my clothes. I’m worried about this job.” She sat on the bed and then flopped backward to stare at the ceiling. “This is a nightmare.” Rolling over, she propped herself up on an elbow to look at him. “I’m the last person Ken’s going to want to help.”

“The man’s going to jump through hoops to help you. You were the love of his life.”

She cringed, knowing all too well how much she’d hurt him. “‘Were’ being the operative word.” Her eyes welled, and she flashed a weak smile at Greg. “I’m thirsty,” she lied. “Would you get me a soda?”

He nodded, probably knowing she needed privacy more than she needed a drink, and slipped out toward the kitchen.

With a sigh, she rolled over, dragging her pillow across her face. She’d made a huge mistake hitching her star to Drake Tyrell, and made an even bigger mistake leaving Los Angeles in the first place.

She’d been so naive. Working for Drake had been the biggest thrill of her life, and she’d actually seen two movies come out with her name as associate producer…before her world had come crashing down.

At the time she’d smelled success, so she’d thrown herself even more into the work, giving it every ounce of energy she had, knowing there’d be nothing left for a personal life, especially not a personal life an entire continent away. She’d had her eye on the prize, so she’d sucked up her courage and told Ken she wanted some time apart and unattached.

She didn’t regret the decision. Not then, not now. But she’d always regretted the consequences of that decision. She’d hurt Ken, and she’d never really told him how sorry she was.

After the breakup, Tyrell had told her that her sacrifices were worth it because she was going to be a real player someday. Lousy, lying bastard.

He hadn’t meant a word of it—he’d just wanted Lisa in his bed and, by the end of a year, that’s exactly where she was. Ken found out, of course, since the affair was plastered all over the tabloids. Even though they’d already broken up, Lisa’s sleeping with Tyrell had hurt Ken—badly—and she hated herself for it.

When the studio shut them down and Tyrell fled for his native Britain, Lisa was out on her own—and her production credits didn’t mean a thing. She had a scarlet T on her forehead, and it was all she could do to find work on even the lowest-budget flicks.

Greg came back in, jarring her from her thoughts, and she sat up in time to see him flip the desk chair around to straddle. He crossed his arms over the backrest and nodded toward the diet Coke can on her nightstand. “Feeling better?”

“You’re just too damn perceptive.”

“I know. It’s a gift.”

“I feel fine.” She took a sip, letting the fizzy drink work its magic. “I’m not going to be royally humiliated until later when I’m in Los Angeles.”

“If you don’t think you have a chance, why’d you take the job?”

“Because I’m an idiot.” She scooted backward and slipped off the bed to start packing again, this time taking more care to fold each item. After a second she sighed and looked him in the eye. “Okay. You win. I took it because it’s the best shot I’ve had in a long time.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You just want me in L.A. so you can have the bedroom.”

“True enough.”

He laughed, but she knew he was only half joking. They shared the one-bedroom apartment with two others, a flight attendant and another actor/waiter. Each month, one of them got dibs on the bedroom and the others shared the living room with its three foam chairs that pulled out into tiny beds. So much for pop culture’s perception about life in the big city. Monica and Rachel might have their own bedrooms and a humongous apartment, but Friends was a far cry from Lisa’s reality.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded, realizing she was biting her lower lip. “Yeah. Just nervous. If I can pull off the locations, I’ll get a producer credit.” She looked him in the eye. “And if the film does well, that means my career will be back on track. I’ve got a lot riding on this job, and for all I know Ken’s just going to slam the door in my face.”

“Then you won’t be any worse off than you are now.” He moved to sit on the bed. “But I think you’re going to do great.”

Her smile felt watery. “Thanks. I appreciate you going out on a limb for me. Really.”

“What can I say? I’m a heck of a guy.”

“You?” she teased. “I hadn’t noticed.”

His grin widened. “No? You should pay more attention.”

At that, she laughed outright then her smile faded to a frown again. “I’m just afraid Ken’s going to laugh in my face. And I wouldn’t blame him one bit. I was a bitch. Self-centered and stupid.”

“Ah, but now you’re a reformed bitch. Or at least you’re a charter member of Bitches Anonymous and firmly on the wagon.”

She managed a smile, wondering if it was true. If it came down to it, would she do the same thing all over again?

“Seriously,” he continued, “there’s no crime in wanting to focus on your career.”

“I know. But I’m sure he thinks I left him for Tyrell, not for Tyrell’s job offer.” She sighed. “Besides, fat lot of good it did me. I came out here expecting to return to L.A. in triumph, and look at me. I’m going back now with less in my checking account than when I was fresh out of school.”

“I don’t think Ken’s going to care about your checkbook.”

“Except to feel some smug satisfaction that I blew it.”

Greg’s smile was patient. Clearly he knew she was in one of her moods. “The way you’ve described him, I don’t think he’s the holier-than-thou type.”

She wasn’t ready to concede. “Maybe not five years ago, but he’s Mr. Big Shot now.”

“And a damn good-looking Mr. Big Shot, too,” Greg said.

“He’s not your type.” She smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“Too bad.”

“Do you know I went to the opening of Oxygen? That was the night he was going to ask me to marry him. Of course, I found that out later, after I told him I was moving back to New York. Not a very happy memory, and now I’m supposed to go back and ask to film there? Do you have any idea how many old wounds this is going to open?”

“So don’t take the job.”

“Ha, ha.” Taking a fortifying breath, she latched her suitcase and tugged it off the bed. “Wish me luck. I’m off to beg a favor from my ex-boyfriend.”

“Good luck.”

She paused in the doorway. “Thanks. I’m going to need it.”

3

“THANKS FOR CHOOSING the Bellisimo, Ms. Neal. Enjoy your stay.”

Through a haze of exhaustion, Lisa thanked the clerk as she clutched her room key, still not quite believing that Avenue F was footing the bill for her to stay in a hotel as lush as the Bellisimo. She hadn’t slept at all the night before, and now she was having trouble remembering her name, much less what she did with her luggage. She looked down toward her ankles, trying to find the matched set of suitcases her mother had given her years ago and fought a wave of panic until she remembered the bellhop had taken them.

Stifling a yawn, she surveyed the lobby, trying to find the bellman and her bags. The hotel was just as she’d remembered it. Polished marble columns, polished hardwood floor, everything shiny and gleaming and not the least bit understated. The place practically smelled of money, and it attracted the type of clientele who were drawn to that particular scent.

Exactly the kind of atmosphere Ken had wanted for his very first restaurant—a prestigious address with a crowd made up of climbers and those already at the top. As Lisa glanced around, she knew he had to be pleased. Not some small part of his success was tied to his skill in choosing the right location.

Some sort of convention was going on, and the lobby was filled to overflowing with men and women in suits sporting little plastic name tags. When the crowd finally parted a bit, Lisa caught a glimpse of the bellhop near the bank of elevators. With a wave, she signaled that she was on her way.

Actually getting to him was a bit more tricky, and she ended up having to squeeze between the stacks of luggage left lying around by the conventioneers, a process that took a lot more energy than she had left. She finally made it, though she ended up feeling frazzled and far too jostled for comfort.

After handing the bellhop her room key, she ran her hands through her hair, sure she was probably making it a spiky mess. Not that it mattered. The one thing she wanted was to get to her room, then collapse on her bed for a long nap and spend a few blissful hours completely ignoring the problem that had kept her awake in the first place—how she was going to persuade Ken Harper to help her.

The bellhop punched the elevator button, and Lisa leaned against the cool marble wall as they waited for a car to arrive. In truth, persuading Ken wasn’t her biggest worry. No, what she feared most was her reaction—and his—when she saw him again.

When she’d told Ken she was leaving five years ago, she had no way of knowing that he’d been planning to ask her to marry him that very night. She’d found out the next day when she’d gone to the restaurant to say goodbye to Tim and Chris and all the other friends she’d made. Tim’s usually cheerful face had seemed cold and closed off, and she’d pushed him to tell her what was wrong.

When he told her about Ken’s plans, she’d gone cold inside, but she hadn’t changed her mind. Ken had wanted to wait until marriage to sleep together, but Lisa’d never made any promises. If anything, she’d been completely forthright. Marriage wasn’t on her radar—then or now. Five years ago she’d been entirely focused on her career. Her whole life she’d wanted a career in the film industry, and she’d had no intentions of getting distracted by a relationship. Maybe someday she’d marry and have a family, but not now—and certainly not back when she’d moved to New York.

Not that leaving had been easy. She adored Ken. Maybe they hadn’t slept together, but his kisses, his touch, his nearness had always done amazing things to her body, making her breathless and tingly in a way no man since had ever made her feel. He had always been a perfect gentleman—had never teased her sexually and then pulled away. And despite the firm boundaries in their relationship, there’d been a chemistry between them that was undeniable.

She’d wanted to sleep with him, had wanted him to gather her in his arms and make love to her for long, endless nights—but she’d fought the feeling, using all her effort to box that passion and push it to a secluded corner of her mind.

In a weird way, Ken’s old-fashioned insistence saved her. Her reaction to him was explosive, and she wasn’t sure she would have been able to keep her focus if they’d given in to passion.

The bell sounding the arrival of the elevator pulled her from her thoughts, and she stifled a shiver. Now that she was here, she was terrified that she’d react just as powerfully to Ken—but that he’d only react to her with anger and hurt.

“After you, miss.” The bellhop held open the door, gesturing for her to enter the windowed elevator. He followed with his cart laden with her luggage, and a swarm of conventioneers piled in after him, pushing her all the way to the back. A wave of claustrophobia swept over her, and she turned around to look through the glass at the lobby coffee shop, trying to ignore the uncomfortable press of people behind her.

Her gaze swept the lounge, taking in the chic attire of the Los Angeles elite. Still early morning, and already the movers and shakers were having their breakfast meetings, making decisions. Producers were meeting with directors, agents were meeting with actors, and more than anything, she wanted to be in on the action.

With a little sigh, she pressed her forehead to the glass and was just about to close her eyes when a familiar movement caught her eye. She blinked, trying to figure out what she’d seen.

And then there it was again—a starched white shirt, khakis, broad shoulders, a head of thick brown hair. He moved with the casualness of the completely self-confident.

Her pulse quickened. Even from behind, she knew that body, knew the way those broad shoulders moved as he walked, knew the way those strong thighs felt beneath her fingers.

The elevator stopped and most of the conventioneers stepped off. She knew she should move away from the glass, quit watching before he turned around. But she couldn’t tear herself away. He was following a hostess to a table near a potted palm, and when they arrived, he pulled out his chair and turned around to sit, facing her.

From her angle above him she couldn’t see his entire face, but what she could see made her stomach twist with memories, both delightful and disturbing. Slowly, almost as if he felt her watching, he lifted his head and seemed to look right at her.

She gasped and took an involuntary step back, banging into the bellhop’s cart and almost tripping.

“Are you okay, miss?”

“What?” She was still staring at the glass, trying to work up the courage to step closer to see if he was still looking up at her. “Oh. Yes. I’m fine. Just tired. Long plane ride.”

“Well, you’ll have a room and a comfortable bed soon.”

She nodded vaguely as she gripped the handrail, her fingers tight against the brass bar. Trying for casual, she stepped toward the glass and peered through it to the lounge below. Their eyes met, and her body tingled from a rush of warmth that spread through her, languid and inviting. She held his gaze until, finally, the elevator rose high enough that she could no longer see him.

She exhaled, her breath shaky. She had no idea if he’d really seen her, or if he’d just been looking in her direction. Even if he had seen the woman in the elevator, would he recognize her after five years? She didn’t know.

She gnawed her lower lip, knowing one thing for certain—at least on her part, whatever chemistry, whatever magic, had been between them five years ago, was just as overwhelming today.

IT COULDN’T HAVE BEEN HER. Absolutely not. No way.

He’d been repeating the mantra for more than ten hours, ever since he’d noticed the woman rising in the elevator. The woman with the slim figure and the chin-length blond hair. The woman he imagined was Lisa.

Not possible. And not worth obsessing about.

He needed to quit obsessing and to focus on his work. He’d left the hotel right after breakfast to run the gaunt-let between his clubs and restaurants in Orange County, Ventura and Palm Springs. He’d crawled back to Oxygen at midnight and the restaurant was now hopping with late-night energy. Though the dinner crowd had left, the place was by no means empty. A few late diners dotted the tables, along with folks who’d come in for dessert and coffee. In the lounge area, a small crowd had already gathered on the dance floor as the jazz band cranked out favorites from the thirties and forties.

Ken eased his way from the main dining area to the lounge, trying to focus his thoughts. They focused all right—directly on the woman in the elevator. There’d been something about the way she’d looked at him, something about the way she’d held herself. And he’d been unable to rip his eyes away.

Frustrated, he took a seat at the bar, then tugged at his tie, loosening the blasted thing.

“Something on your mind, boss?” Chris put down a napkin, then topped it with a tall glass of sparkling water.

“Just thinking about old times.”

“Not surprised. Coming up on five years. That’s a hell of an accomplishment.”

True enough, but what Ken was thinking about wasn’t his restaurant; it was his ex-girlfriend. Still, he didn’t intend to clue his bartender in on this particular neurosis, and he lifted the glass in a toast. “To five more years.”

Chris nodded. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Not on the job you won’t,” he said in a jokingly stern tone.

“Whatever you say, boss,” he said, grinning as he turned to help one of the guests.

Ken swiveled on his stool, surveying the restaurant he’d started on a shoestring five years ago. No wonder he’d had such a visceral reaction to the woman in the elevator. Five years ago Lisa had walked out. In one week he’d face the anniversary of both her departure and his grand opening. Who wouldn’t be a little raw? And it was certainly no surprise that he was seeing ghosts in the elevators.

But that’s all she was—a ghost. Ken needed to forget Lisa and to move on with his life. Not that he was interested in jumping back into the dating game. What he’d told Tim was true. If the right woman came along, great. But he had no intention of searching her out. Considering he had to hire someone to run his clothes to the dry cleaner’s and pick up his groceries, he had no time to waste looking for a date.

Once upon a time he might have been craving the domestic life, but no more. He’d made a success of himself, and he had everything he could possibly want. Everything. He didn’t need to go hunting up trouble.

He was practicing not thinking about Lisa, or the woman in the elevator, or women in general, when the maître d’, Charles, caught his eye, signaling for him to come over. A woman was standing next to Charles, her face obscured by the ornate columns near the entrance. Since Charles tended to be protective of Ken’s time, if he thought it was important for Ken to meet her, chances were she was a celebrity, a restaurant critic or some other mover and shaker in the Hollywood scene.

His professional demeanor in place, he moved toward the front of the restaurant. As he drew near, he realized who the woman was, but by then it was too late to turn back gracefully. Instead, he steeled himself and headed forward.

Alicia Duncan turned as he approached, her television-ready smile gleaming. “Ken!” She held out a hand for him to take. “Kiss, kiss! It’s so wonderful to see you again.”

“Alicia.” He took a fortifying breath. As usual, she looked so picture-perfect it was scary. In the two years he’d known her, Ken didn’t think he’d ever seen her without every hair in place and her makeup just so—even during some of their more intimate moments.

He clasped her hand in his, and let go as quickly as etiquette allowed. “What a nice surprise.” He was in no mood to hear Alicia’s pitch again, and he said a silent prayer that maybe she really had come only for a late dinner.

“I was hoping to catch you.” She leaned in closer and he could smell bourbon on her breath. A lot of bourbon. “I need to talk to you. A favor.”

“Alicia—”

She held up a hand. “Dammit, Kenny. Just five minutes? Can’t you spare me five minutes of your precious time?”

He cringed at the nickname, but nodded. “Five minutes.”

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