It was time to embrace her inner wild child.

Brooke drained her cocktail and put the glass on their table. David dropped his face against her neck, scattering warm little pecks from her shoulder blade into the hairline at her nape.

“People are looking at us,” she whispered.

He put his mouth over her ear and she shivered. “Let them.”

“If you’re not careful, you’ll be in the gossip columns. ‘What Boston bad boy was seen canoodling with a scandalously underdressed blue blood?’”

He shrugged. “My cover’s already been blown.”

“How long are you…” She swallowed, not wanting to sound clingy.

“Staying?” He licked behind her ear. “I don’t know. Not long, I expect.”

Perfect. He was exactly what she needed right now. “So what you’re saying is this is a one-night stand.”

He paused in his exploration to look directly. “Are you OK with that?”

Oh, she was more than OK with this. “I’ll race you to the nearest bed.”

CARRIE ALEXANDER

lives in Upper Michigan, where the winters are long and the snow is measured by how high it reaches up your leg. The knee-deep blizzards give her plenty of writing time, resulting in over thirty slightly scandalous romance novels. After the snow melts, her most daring challenge is swimming the Michigamme river in May, before the water warms up.

Dear Reader,

How daring are you?

I confess that I’m not. I blame this on my first attempt at driving a motorbike when I was a girl. With very little instruction, I zipped away at top speed. What fun! I’ll go even faster! Yikes, I’m running out of road…how do I slow down? Is this the brake? I have to turn – now. Crash!

Yes, I’m accident-prone. I’d be the skydiver who broke her leg at the landing or the diver who belly flopped from the high board. But what about dares that are mental as well as physical? Brooke Winfield, the most conservative of THE MARTINI DARES heroines, goes far out of her comfort zone to perform a public striptease. This proves to be a revealing act in more ways than the obvious. While I’m never going to skydive, I do write sexy romantic exposés, somewhat of a scandalous occupation where I live. Maybe I’m more daring than I thought.

I hope My Front Page Scandal gives you a vicarious thrill!

Happy reading,

Carrie Alexander

MY FRONT PAGE SCANDAL

BY

CARRIE ALEXANDER

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to everyone who

provided aid, comfort, meals and cyber-support

during my two months of deadline hell.

Thanks for putting up with me.

1

ONE GOOD YANK and the biker dude’s distressed designer jeans came off.

Brooke Winfield glanced at the featureless bulge between his legs, reminded of playing dolls with her sisters. Joey was always the first to strip the Ken figurine to his plastic skin and make indecent overtures to the girl dolls, while Katie held disco parties for hers. Brooke didn’t actually play at all. She’d been more concerned with designing the dolls’ wardrobes and staging elaborate scenarios in their dream house.

“Thirty years old and I’m still dressing dolls,” she said to the nude male mannequin while she folded the jeans. With his boyish chest and aquiline nose, he was too high-fashion to make a believable biker dude. A leather bandanna and the tattoos she’d painted on his slender forearms were only surface dressing.

Brooke caught a glance of herself in the mirror on the back wall of the display area. The surface was what people noticed. Her surface, as usual, read ninety percent Boston conservative and ten percent creative—today, signified by the jangly tin fish earrings she’d bought last year at the Bazaar Bizarre, a punk-rock arts-and-crafts fair.

Ten percent. Brooke knew that it was time to flip those numbers. Recently, she’d decided that she was finished with conforming to the Winfield rules and expectations. She didn’t want to wind up like her deceased mother, who’d hidden the truth about her previous life right up to the end to fit in with her conservative in-laws.

With a sigh, Brooke returned to dismantling the window. It, at least, had caused a splash, even though the display sold only the illusion of rebellion. Three-hundred-dollar jeans weren’t changing anyone’s world. Certainly not the trendy Bostonians who thought nothing of slapping down the plastic to buy a fashionable garment they might wear only once.

She unscrewed the mannequin and lifted the torso and limbs onto the trolley, then climbed back inside the window display. O.M. Worthington was an historic, ultra-exclusive department store on Newbury Street. It catered to longtime customers, with personal services and the promise of remaining unchanged since the Mayflower.

Alyce Simmons, the head fashion buyer, had enlisted Brooke’s help to push the stodgy store into a more profitable era. Their first collaboration, the leather-heavy Gaultier window display, had caused a few raised eyebrows among the staff, as well as the store’s clientele. The only reason they’d gotten away with it was that Old Man Worthington himself had approved the concept. Even an octogenarian could see that the store must boost their youth appeal or they’d never make it to their third century.

Brooke stripped the female mannequin next, starting with a Cruella-meets-Anna-Wintour wig. She paused to twirl the sleek ebony bob on her finger. Her impulse was to pop the wig over her own bland, brown hair, which remained scraped into a tidy bun after twelve hours at work. She wasn’t the kind of woman who had wild, untamable hair. She didn’t even have tendrils.

Nor did she follow her impulses.

Except for the security guard, she was alone in the store. Tall curtains had been drawn across the street window, enclosing the display area in complete privacy. She could do anything she liked and no one would know.

Normally, what she liked was to complete her work as efficiently as possible. After every task had been check-marked on her clipboard list, she’d go home to a comfy evening of hot chocolate, L.L. Bean goose-down slippers, and an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. If she was feeling restless, she might break out her watercolors and work on a pretty landscape or floral still life.

Boring.

“So why not?” She patted her hair. Do the unexpected, for once in your life.

The past few months had been rocky. Her mother had passed away after a lingering illness. Her sister, Katie, had fallen in love with a man that Brooke had once dated. She’d turned thirty and had suddenly realized that her life was not challenging or exciting or even fresh.

Thus, she came to the decision to indulge herself a little, to try new experiences, maybe meet a few men who didn’t look as though they’d stepped directly out of the pages of Young Bostonian. But all she’d done up to now was buy a tank of tropical fish, say a firm, “No, thank you,” when her Great Aunt Josephine had asked her to chair a Ladies’ League clothing drive and reluctantly agree to become a member of Martinis and Bikinis, a somewhat scandalous social club for women.

Katie had joined the group first, after all three Winfield sisters had received invitations in the mail. She’d become enthusiastic about the Martinis and Bikinis directive of challenging women to step out of the box by issuing them dares—wild tasks such as finally telling off your sexist boss or riding in a convertible with your own top down. After Katie’s rousing success with the club, she’d encouraged her sisters to step up and discover their own inner wild woman. She claimed that the experience was the cathartic release they needed.

Only the extensive martini menu had enticed Brooke. Her wild woman remained on snooze alarm.

She frowned. “Time’s up, sister. Tonight you live up to your Martinis and Bikinis membership pledge.”

She plopped the wig onto her head, tugged it into place, then bent to study herself in the mirror she’d shattered to create an urban mosaic for the display. Her reflection in the jagged shards was different, but the change wasn’t radical. She still wore her professional armor—a cashmere-knit top, tailored pants and low-heeled leather pumps.

Brooke’s eyes went to the bald female mannequin, frozen in a naughty pose with an upthrust derriere, hands spread on the section of the wall that had been bricked with styrofoam and sprayed with graffiti. A minidress rode high across its thighs. The bodice was about exposure, not coverage, with narrow bands of leather that crisscrossed the figurine’s slim torso and flat, hard breasts.

An altogether outrageous dress.

Brooke contemplated. Did she dare go for it?

She’d fantasized about twirling around the store at night in a borrowed Dior gown and satin slippers, but that scenario wasn’t far outside her comfort zone. She’d been to scores of charity events that required dressing to the nines.

But a leather minidress? That was worthy of the Martinis and Bikinis club.

“I won’t buy it,” she said to her reflection. “I’ll only try it on.”

She stripped the mannequin in no time. But then the thought of revealing herself hit home, and she froze. Nudity was out of her comfort zone.

Don’t be a wimp. She kicked off her shoes. Slowly unzipped her pants. As the garment slid down her thighs, she comforted herself with the knowledge that no one was watching except the blank-eyed mannequin.

The Martinis and Bikinis mantra spurred her on. She stepped free of the trousers and stood shivering in her bikini underpants. I can do it. I can dare.

Katie had transformed her life in the month since she’d jumped headfirst into the Martinis and Bikinis experience. Brooke wanted to take the same leap.

“I’m trying,” she murmured. Granted, dressing up in secret was minor by comparison. But it was a start, especially for her. She’d been holed up in the family home in the suburbs since her mother’s death three months ago. She’d needed time. Time to adjust to the loss, the loneliness…and the stunning revelation that her mother had given a baby up for adoption before Brooke and her sisters were born.

The discovery that Lindsay Beckham was her half-sister had hit Brooke like a thunderbolt. She was still dealing with the aftereffects, including sorting out what it meant to her identity as the eldest Winfield sister—the responsible one, who had always done her best to follow her mother’s example and live up to the high expectations of the rest of the family.

Resolutely, she put all that out of her mind and doffed her sweater. Prickling with goose flesh, she pulled the minidress over her head. The wig slipped down over her eyes and she pushed it back, skinned the dress past her hips, then peered into the fractured mirror.

She looked ridiculous. The Gaultier dress wasn’t designed to be worn with socks, a bra and any type of underwear that offered more coverage than a thong. She’d thought she could go halfway in the transformation, but to get the full effect, she would have to take everything off.

Everything.

A quick peek through the drapes at Newbury Street reassured her. The high-end shops and chichi galleries were shut down. A nightclub and a couple of restaurants were doing business in the adjacent blocks, but at this hour, none of their customers were likely to linger near the Worthington windows.

Brooke was safe, she was secure, she was alone. “And something tells me that you’re missing the point,” she muttered. Ah, well. Baby steps.

She eyed the mannequin’s stilettos. Baby steps were the only way for her to walk in five-inch heels.

With her undergarments and socks off and the shoes on, she returned to the mosaic mirror to examine her reflection. Much better. She adjusted the leather straps. The dress was a standard sample size six, which should have fit. Either she’d been sucking down too many hot chocolates or the dress was designed to make even a slender shape like hers appear voluptuous. Her modest breasts were mashed together, cleavage bulging out in every direction. And her legs—oh, my. She’d always been the tall one of the family, but in the towering stilettos, her legs were a mile long.

She pouted at her reflection. “Yeah, baby. You’re sex on stilts.”

Pah. Brooke yanked off the wig. Absurd. She hadn’t had sex since she’d moved back home. And as long as truths were being told, if only to herself, she could admit that from her scalp to her toes she dreaded the day when it was her turn to take a Martinis and Bikinis club dare.

The blast of an engine and the screech of tires in the street ripped Brooke’s attention from the mirror. She stuck her head through the opening in the drapes in time to see a speeding red and black motorcycle completing a sharp U-turn on Newbury. Luckily, the street was nearly empty.

The bike shot past the store, its back end slewing out of control. The driver cut the front wheel into the skid—too late. The motorcycle slid across the pavement and into a lamppost. The driver hit the sidewalk like a bag of wet cement. His helmet flew off, bounced hard a couple of times and rolled to a stop in the gutter.

For a couple of seconds, Brooke was too stunned to move. Neither did the driver. Then his hand lifted off the sidewalk and waved for help, before flopping flat again.

She whirled and made a balletic leap out of the elevated window display, forgetting the stilettos until she landed with a jar to both ankles, sharp enough to bring her to her knees.

“Gus!” She staggered up, waving at the security cameras as she sprinted past the floor displays to the front doors. If the night watchman was making rounds, he might hear her calling. “Gus! I need help. There’s been an accident.”

She slammed into the doors. They were shatterproof glass, mullioned, with heavy, ornate latches. Locked, of course, and she didn’t have the key since she came and went through the service entrance around back.

The ancient cage elevator churned toward the first floor. Gus must be on his way, bless his heart.

Brooke rattled the latches, then cupped her hands around her eyes and tried to see down the street. A taxicab drove by, slowing as it approached the scene of the accident. Thank God. Help had arrived.

The elevator ground to a stop and Gus pushed back the grate. “Please hurry,” Brooke urged as the older man scurried across the gleaming terrazzo. “A motorbike crashed on the street. Unlock the doors for me, then call nine-one-one for an ambulance.”

“Yes, Miss Winfield.” Gus gave her a funny look as he juggled through his keys.

The dress. She crossed her arms and tucked her hands into her armpits. There wasn’t time to worry about the skimpy garment now. Fortunately, Gus was a good egg. He wouldn’t tell on her.

He shoved the door open. She raced outside, her heels tapping on the wide stone steps of the main entrance as she trotted down them. The cab had stopped at the curb. Its driver knelt beside the injured man, who was trying to sit up. “I’m fine,” he insisted. His arms flailed. “Let me be.”

Brooke dropped to her knees. “You’re disoriented,” she soothed, reaching for his shoulder to cajole him into staying down. “Keep still. You’ve been injured.”

He roughly pushed her hand away. His hair was dark, shaggy and disheveled, his face bloody.

“Nine-one-one’s busy,” Gus called from inside the store. “I’m on hold.”

The accident victim’s wild eyes settled on Brooke. “Get me out of here,” he pleaded.

“Of course,” she said evenly. The poor guy was out of his mind. “An ambulance will be on its way very soon.”

A couple of vehicles cruised by, the drivers gawking at the scene. Each time, the motorcycle driver flinched. He raised a shaking hand to shield his face from the curious stares. “Just help me stand up,” he begged.

“That’s not a good—” His jarring weight snapped Brooke’s mouth shut. He’d leaned heavily on her shoulder as he got to his feet. She rose with him, wrapping her arms around his denim jacket and solid body as he staggered. “Please sit down. You’re not thinking clearly. You have to see a doctor.”

“So we’ll go find a doctor.” He looked dazedly at the idling cab. “This’ll do.”

“But—”

A man with a camera jumped out of one of the passing cars and pushed through the small crowd that had gathered. The biker lurched toward the cab, taking Brooke with him as he collapsed into the back seat. She was in an ignominious position, sprawled halfway on top of him by virtue of their tangled arms. A shock of cool air between her legs reminded her that she wore absolutely nothing beneath the dress. Horrified, she unwound herself and managed to shimmy the leather down over her clamped thighs while also shoving the man’s legs into the cab.

He hung his head off the edge of the seat, his face deathly pale beneath the streaks and spatters of blood. With a groan, he closed his eyes.

The driver climbed behind the wheel, passing the motorcyclist’s helmet and keys over the seat. “Where to? Mass General?”

Brooke hesitated in the open door of the cab with her arms wrapped around the helmet. She shouldn’t leave the store, not in the purloined dress. But the man needed help. Another blinding flash from the camera settled her decision, especially when the photographer began cursing and shoving to make his way toward the cab for a better angle.

She slithered into the backseat and yanked the door shut. “Emergency room. Step on it.”

COLOR AND LIGHT SWIRLED through the darkness inside David Carerra’s closed lids. He floated. The psychedelic pond catapulted him through time to the old swimming hole back home in Georgia. He’d learned to hold his breath until he could stay submerged in the green murk of a silent underwater world for minutes at a time, where there was nothing to hurt him except the snapping turtles that glided away at his approach. When he’d surface, the live oaks would waver against the shock of a blinding sky, distorted by the droplets spangling his lashes. He’d flip over onto his back and float for what seemed like hours, until Maribeth, his father’s common-law wife, would realize the boy was gone and start screeching his name.

Jaden. Jay-aaay-den, you come home now.

Bile rose in his throat. He pushed through the thick water, spitting out the poison as he reentered a harsh, cold world.

“Christ,” said a distant voice. “I’ll never get the smell out.”

“How does a twenty-dollar tip sound?” asked a second voice. Female, nearby.

“Fifty’d be better.”

“Fifty,” she agreed, without conviction.

David moved his tongue in his mouth, checking for loosened teeth. The taste was as foul as biting into an old raw beet. “Ackkk.”

The woman’s face appeared near his. “You’re conscious.”

“Urgh.”

“What’s your name?”

Jaden. Jaden David Jackson.

She gave him a pat. Had he spoken? “Never mind,” she said in a voice as gentle as a breeze whispering through the loblolly pines. “We’re almost at the hospital. They’ll take care of you.”

“Hospital?”

She leaned over him again. “Your motorcycle went out of control on Newbury Street. You’re in a cab, on the way to Mass General.”

David struggled to line up the sequence of events in his muddled brain. “So who are you?”

“Brooke Winfield. I work at Worthington. I saw your crash from the window.”

He didn’t know what Worthington was, but he figured the name of a street corner sounded about right, given her style of dress. If she leaned over him one more time, a nipple would pop out.

He gave an especially pained groan, but she didn’t lean any closer. Shucks.

“I’m feeling better,” he lied.

“Can you sit up?”

“If you help me.” Her bare arms encircled him and he put his face in the nook of her shoulder and neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of female flesh. His mind cleared another few degrees.

Maybe not a street corner. She was too…clean.

She put the flat of her hand against his skull and pushed his lolling head upright. He caught a glimpse of black night and neon city lights before closing his eyes again. The rhythm of the cab’s wheels thrummed beneath him. Comforting, except for the acrid whiff of fuel. His stomach churned.

“Better?” Brooke cooed.

“Sure.” He squinted, focusing on her face instead of the pounding in his head. He’d been in an accident. He remembered it now: Leaving the hotel for the bar where he and Rick raised a few in lament of a broken marriage. Word of their presence buzzing, spreading. Paparazzi arriving, chasing him down. He’d opened the throttle of his bike, not caring about the danger, as long as he got away.

Killing himself was one way to do it.

He looked at Brooke’s long bare legs and swallowed the grit on his tongue. “Did they get pictures?”

“One or two.” She tugged at the hem of her dress, which was hovering at indecent-exposure level. “Are you famous?”

“Notorious.” He tried to grin at her, but the effort felt sickly rather than cocksure, so he let his face drop into the nook again. She was soft and silken against the abraded skin on his cheek.

“We’re here,” the cabbie said, slowing to make the turn toward the emergency entrance. A siren blasted a two-second warning nearby.

Brooke pushed his head back up and smiled with encouragement. “Can you walk, or should I ask for a wheelchair?”

With fuzzy eyes, he studied his rescuer. She seemed beatific. A heart-shaped face held shining eyes and pink lips that stretched wide when she smiled and puckered when she frowned with concern. Strands of caramel-brown hair curved against her cheeks and the long, graceful neck that smelled like powder and sunny meadows.

Above the neck, an angel of mercy. Below…

Born to sin.

“You don’t look good,” she said, putting a palm to her chest as she moved away. “I’ll get help.”

“No, no, I can walk.” He followed her out the car door—hell, he’d have followed her anywhere—wobbling only a little as he stepped onto the pavement and got his feet under him. The lights were too bright and the sounds too loud. He winced and clutched at Brooke for support.

She was as tall as him in her high heels. Maybe taller. She had to bend slightly to fit her shoulder solidly beneath his outstretched arm. Behind them, the driver had gotten out to circle the cab and shut the door. He cleared his throat as he handed over the helmet.

“Oh, yes,” Brooke said, taking it. “I’m afraid I don’t have any money with me, but if you’ll give me your name—”

“My wallet.” His voice sounded as raspy as his face felt. “Back pocket.”

The helmet pressed against his ribs as she reached around. Her fingers felt along his backside until they found the wallet. He grunted, enjoying the groping just a little despite his pain.

She got him straightened out again before flipping the billfold open. The thick wad of cash made her hesitate. “Umm…”

“Give him a hundred.” David waved at the cabbie. “Sorry, pal. Thanks for your help.”

An emergency room attendant wheeled a chair toward them. Brooke was still staring into the wallet. “David Carerra,” she read off his license. “I’ll be damned. You’re David Carerra, the baseball player?”

The attendant pried David loose and guided him into a wheelchair. He raked back his tangled hair. When his hand pulled away, blood glistened on his fingertips.

Brooke’s mouth was agape. He winced, knowing he was losing her. “That’s right, David Carerra. Like I told you—I’m notorious.”

“IS IT TRUE?”

Brooke gave her head a shake. She’d dozed off, huddled inside the injured man’s denim jacket, his helmet nestled in her lap as she sat up in one of the hard plastic chairs of the emergency room. She pulled back the sleeve to check her watch. Ninety minutes, it’d been, and still no sign of him. A nurse had told her to wait, but for how long?

“Yo, there. Is it true?” asked the man across from her. He was grizzled with several days’ growth of a beard. The ice pack applied to his left wrist leaked onto his Patriots jersey and moth-eaten gray sweatpants.

“Is what true?” Brooke tightened her knees, then lifted her hand to brush away the hair hanging in her face. What do you know—she had tendrils.

“You came in with David Carerra.”

She grimaced at the splotches of blood on the jacket cuff. “I guess so.”

“That turncoat son of a bitch.”

Brooke’s gut knotted. “What?”

The man tightened the wrap on his wrist. “Weren’t no Series for the Sox this year, y’know?”

“And you blame Mr. Carerra?” Brooke followed baseball at a once-removed distance. Her late father had gone to the games, occasionally with Joey or Katie, but he’d left Brooke out of the invitation after she’d taken along a sketchpad once too often.

Even so, she knew David Carerra. He was the pinch hitter whose home run had won the previous season’s World Series for the Red Sox. For a time, Carerra had been the toast of the town, a shaggy-haired rebel who’d stepped off the bench and become the city’s unlikeliest of heroes. Opinion had turned against him the past season. Even though he’d been elevated to a starting position and had been performing well, he’d suddenly quit the team at a midpoint losing streak. After that, the Sox had sunk even lower in the standings, a galling comedown after the championship year. Speculation about Carerra’s defection had run rampant the columns of the city’s sportswriters. Rumors had run wild among the stunned fans.

“He sure didn’t help,” the stranger said. “What’s with the guy, quitting like that? Steroids? Drink?” He looked her up and down. “Sexual addiction?”

Brooke’s thigh muscles squeezed even tighter. She pulled the jacket closed over her chest and gave the man a lofty look down her nose, using an expression and tone borrowed from her Great Aunt Josephine, who could drop the temperature of a Sub-Zero with one glance. “I couldn’t possibly say.”

“Yeah, well, you tell him he turned his back on a town that don’t forget.”

If I ever see him again. Brooke looked away. She had his wallet, jacket, helmet and keys. She had to see him again.

Feeling decidedly displaced from the ninety-to-ten ratio of her normal appearance, she rose up on the unstable spike heels and set her sights on the nurses’ station. Maybe Carerra had been admitted for overnight treatment and they’d forgotten to tell her.

She arrived at the desk without turning an ankle or splitting a seam just as the attending nurse hurried off to take care of a scuffle that had broken out in the curtained examining rooms. First a drunken lout bellowed, then came a shout and a crash. A knot of white coats hustled a patient from the area.

David Carerra. Over his shoulder, he gave the drunk a rude gesture, Southie style. Someone shoved a clipboard at him. He scrawled a signature, looked up and saw Brooke. A doctor was reeling off instructions, but Carerra brushed her off.

He walked over and stood before Brooke, his hands riding low on his hips. “Whaddaya know? It’s my angel of mercy.” His voice was thick and slow and sweet. She wondered what kind of medication he was on. “Hey, there, beautifulll.”

“I’m Brooke.” He’d pinned her with his eyes. They were bright green and hugely dilated. She felt her own widening. Even battered, disheveled and disgraced, David Carerra was too much man for her to take in. “Brooke Winfield.”

He smiled with only one side of his mouth—crooked and cocky. Sticky spikes of hair had flopped over the wide bandage wrapped around his head. “I remember.” His gaze dropped. “Especially the dress.”

She shuffled her feet together, clutched the jacket collar. “I don’t usually wear—” She stopped. He doesn’t need to know that. “This is yours.”

“The jacket? Keep it.”

“You’ll be cold.”

“They gave me painkillers. I’m comfortably numb.”

“Mr. Carerra,” the doctor interrupted. She handed him a prescription form. “You may have a headache for a few days, and you’ll need to clean your wounds properly.” She glanced at Brooke. “I’ll discharge him to your care. Our tests showed no sign of concussion, but it’s best if you keep an eye on him for the next twenty-four hours.”

Brooke blinked. “Me?”

David spread his hands. “Angel?”

“I couldn’t possibly—” Brooke’s voice halted again at the shock of hearing herself sound exactly like Great Aunt Josephine, even when she hadn’t meant to. While she wasn’t sure where to take the rest of her life, she knew that emulating her prim-and-proper aunt was not the way to go. And dressed as she was, with the city’s most rebellious bad boy in tow, there was no telling where the night might lead.

“Thank you.” She removed the prescription from the doctor’s hand. “I’ll look after him.”

2

CAMERA FLASHES BLINDED David the instant he stepped outside of the hospital. He winced and threw up his arm to block the photographers’ shots. Returning to Boston had been a bad idea even before the accident. Now every rag in the area would have a heyday, plastering his ravaged face on their front pages.

“Carerra!” called one of the circling vultures. He recognized Bobby Cook, a wannabe sports writer who slummed for the Insider, a tabloid that preferred flash and trash to legit reporting. Cook had been raking through David’s past since his retirement, looking for the buried muck. Little did Cook know that he’d need more than a rake. Maybe a back hoe.

“What happened tonight?” shouted a reporter. “Were you drunk?”

“Where’ve you been?”

“Why’d you come back?”

“Who’s the chick?”

The questions came in quick succession. David made no reaction.

“Hey, ya lousy quittah,” shouted someone at the back of the group. Probably a photographer, hoping to provoke a response. David was much too familiar with their tactics. “Look this way, jerk-off.”

David grabbed Brooke’s hand and shoved through the gathering of journalists. He pushed her inside the waiting cab, following so closely he almost landed in her lap. Without bothering to disentangle their limbs, he slammed the door shut, clipping a protruding lens. The photographer went reeling.

David met the driver’s flat glare in the rearview mirror. “Floor it.” The man grunted, but the cab took off with a jerk.

“What was that about?” Brooke was flush with outrage.

“Read tomorrow’s paper and you’ll find out.”

She put her hands on his chest as if to push herself away. “Will it be the truth?”

“Who cares?”

She gave him a slow blink. “Bitter much?”

His face was stiff and bruised, and it hurt when it moved. He laughed anyway. “You’re supposed to be my angel. Don’t I get any sympathy?”

They were still entwined. He was aware of every detail about her—the thick lashes, the shallowness of her breathing, the jut of her sharp chin and slight quiver of her bottom lip, the press of her thighs and the shadowed crevice between them where her dress had slipped too high. She was an interesting mix of innocence and provocation.

He curved a hand around her thigh—taking his time—and lifted it from his. She yanked it away as if he’d tried to molest her and scooted across the seat, giving her skirt a violent jerk that must have come close to snapping a few of the leather bands.

With her legs clamped together, she smoothed back her hair. “I didn’t realize that Boston had that many paparazzi.” Even though she was obviously trying to sound unflustered, there was a tremor in her voice.

He shrugged. “Just enough to be annoying.”

“Was that why you were speeding on your motorcycle in the first place, to get away from them?”

“Yeah. They were way back, but closing in. I thought if I banged a U-ey, as you locals say, I might lose them.”

She rubbed a knuckle across her mouth. “I watched from the window. You bounced off a lamppost and scraped the curb.”

“What window?”

“Worthington’s. I’m a display artist—a window dresser.” She looked down at herself and sucked in a gasp. “I have to go back. I—uh…” She put one hand on her thighs, crossed the other arm over her breasts. “I left the window in a mess.”

“Where is this place, exactly—Worthington? I can pick up my bike, if it’s still there.”

She gave the driver a Newbury Street address on the ritzy northern end. “You don’t know O.M. Worthington? It’s a venerable department store. A Boston institution.”

“Sounds vaguely familiar.” With a tired sigh, he relaxed his aching body against the seat. The last time he’d been this sore, he’d run into a two-hundred pound catcher at home plate. “They sell designer dresses and stuff, right? I’m not a big shopper.”

She pinkened at his lazy perusal. Very little of her was visible under the oversize jacket, but if the leather S&M dress was any example, he should shop more often.

“We sell everything,” she said quietly.

“Shoes?” He knew what women called her kind of shoes. Come do me. The throbbing desire to take her up on the unspoken invitation rivaled all his aches and pains added up together.

He closed his eyes. You’re in enough trouble. Don’t ask for more. “Do you sell good reputations? I seem to have lost mine.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’m sure you had your reasons for quitting the team.” She didn’t ask what they were. A proper Bostonian to the core, even if the outside told another tale.

“Then you know who I am.” What he meant was, you know what I did.

The decision to get out of baseball had been rash and stupid, born out of his shame over his past. He’d regretted it ever since, but didn’t know how to repair the damage without giving himself away. After all his hard work the loss of his career stung, sure, but what he really disliked was having an entire city thinking the worst of him.

He’d quit baseball so that wouldn’t happen.

But karma was a bitch. And, as his redneck dad always said, blood will tell.

“I saw last year’s World Series, along with the rest of the city,” she said. “I went to the parade, too. You rode a fire truck with some, um, girls.” Brooke sounded less accepting than he’d expect of a woman dressed the way she was. “You know. Bimbos.”

The cab hit a pot hole and David cringed. A hundred little pain demons were beating the inside of his skull like a bass drum. “Not bimbos. Groupies.”

His memories of the parade were vague, but he knew that a whole squadron of groupies had climbed aboard the fire truck mid-route to smother him with champagne and kisses. The firefighters driving hadn’t minded. They’d gotten the leftovers.

“Groupies?” Brooke sniffed. “Same difference.”

By his standards, it wasn’t that late, but David had already had a long night. He wasn’t very alert, and certainly not thinking straight. Still, he knew something wasn’t kosher with the Brooke that he saw and the one who spoke and reacted like a far more conservative woman.

He lifted his head and squinted at her. “You work in that outfit?”

Her lips pressed together. “Not usually.”

“Were you planning a night out?”

“No. No plans.” She blinked. “I mean, I was supposed to meet friends, but I called while you were being examined and said I’d been delayed and might not make it. So, um, no definite plans.”

“You have them now. My doctor’s counting on you.”

Her head pulled back a fraction. “I know I promised to look after you, but please don’t expect me to go home with you.”

“Fine. I don’t have a home. I have a hotel room.”

She widened her eyes. “Then I really can’t stay with you.”

“Why not? You’re single.” He could tell.

“The problem’s not me.”

It’s you. David winced.

“It’s my family. They’re…old-fashioned.”

Dodged that one. His usual cockiness was no match for the gratefulness he felt. Bad rep, be damned. His angel didn’t despise him the way the rest of the city’s population seemed bent on doing.

He touched his tongue to his dry lips. Post-Series, in the heady days of fame and adulation, his life had changed. He’d partied with team sponsors and city bigwigs instead of the working-class guys he’d normally gravitated toward. Along the way, he’d been introduced to plenty of high-society women like Brooke, women who oozed culture and refinement. He’d felt awkward around them until he’d realized they expected the same out of him as any other female—a rough-and-tumble, good old Georgia boy who could charm them out of their satin underdrawers.

David would bet his Series ring that Brooke came from one of Boston’s conservative Brahmin families, which meant that her upbringing was miles away from his own, in every way possible.

But there was also the revealing dress and the do-me shoes to consider….

“So don’t tell them,” he said. “Your old-fashioned family.”

“You have paparazzi. They’ve already taken photos of us. I can’t be a part of—”

He waved her off and closed his leaden lids against the glare of streaming headlights. “No explanation needed. I get it.”

An extended silence made him crack an eye. She’d dropped her chin to her chest and laced her fingers around her knees, deep in thought. Finally she looked at him with appealing doe eyes, big and velvet brown. “I’m sorry.”

David said nothing. She was sorry, huh? Well, so was he. Although his label as a quitter had accustomed him to the scowls, profane insults and pitying stares, he was not prepared for his angel of mercy to give him the bum’s rush.

At the same time, the shameful, niggardly part of him that had prompted his current state of disgrace said that he deserved no more.

THE CAB DROPPED them off at the scene of the accident. David’s motorcycle remained at the curb, although a bystander had stood it up. “Small miracle,” he said to himself, rubbing at the scratches that marred the shiny metal of the sleek, expensive Honda. The only major damage was a large dent in the front fender.

Unsure of what to do or say, Brooke studied the facade of the department store as if she hadn’t been working there ever since college. Stone steps led to the stately four-story stone building. Above a thick, carved lintel were the pitted letters that had spelled out O.M. Worthington since the store had opened as a haberdashery at the turn of the twentieth century. On either side of the double doors were her babies—the display windows. Not large, not ostentatious, but her own private gallery of sorts. She hadn’t had the guts to go as far creatively as she might like, but with Alyce Simmons’s support, she believed that her time was coming. The Gaultier display was only the beginning.

“Where are you headed?” she asked David, without looking at him. “Back to the hotel?”

“Maybe.”

“Remember what the doctor said about watching for signs of concussion.” He’d be all right on his own, she reassured herself. She had her own mess to clean up inside the store.

And out. Her fingers spread over the butter-soft leather of the minidress in an involuntary caress. Despite the scolding conscience that said she must return it as soon as possible, she was reluctant. The dress was outrageous, far beyond what she’d normally wear, which made it more freeing than anything she’d ever put on.

Maybe too freeing, considering her lack of underpants. She’d been on edge about that all night. Particularly when the paparazzi had reappeared and she’d feared they’d snap a Britney-crotch shot of her, and even more particularly when David had caressed her thigh. She’d shocked herself when her impulse was to let him continue.

Yet another impulse ignored. She’d slammed her thighs shut so fast she’d almost snapped his hand off at the wrist.

“What’d the doc say?” David pinched the bridge of his nose. “I forget. My memory’s spotty.”

“Are you…?” She took a quick glance. Of course he’s teasing. He had an impish quality, although nothing in his broad, muscled body or square-jawed face was the least bit elfin. The long, tousled hair, maybe—but mostly it was about attitude.

That, and his dancing, roguish eyes. They seemed to look right into her and know that there was a Brooke, a long-hidden Brooke, who wanted to come out and play.

“Nice try.” She slipped off the jacket and held it out to him.

He came closer to snag it. “Please.” This time, sincerity underwrote every word. “Don’t go back to work.”

“I have to. I left things in a state. The window’s half undone.”

He tried the charming, off-center grin. “You promised to look after me.”

True.

He gave her a head bob. “C’mon.”

She was leaning that way. Literally—her body swaying toward his as if he were the magnetic north pole. “Something tells me you don’t have health care on your mind.” Neither did she.

“Spend the night with me, Brooke. I’ll take you to all my favorite places in the city. We’ll stay up ’til dawn. It’ll be an unforgettable experience.”

More than he knew.

Her heart raced. The need to say yes bubbled inside her like an underground brook. But she couldn’t do it, not this way—the window a mess, him dizzy with pain and high on medication, her gone completely out of her mind, lacking inhibitions or panties.

She wasn’t there. Not yet.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just can’t.”

His battered face fell. The genuine disappointment touched off her sympathy and underlined her longing. Her throat ached, for both of them.

“I have to return to work.” She gestured. “I’m responsible for changing the window and it must be done tonight.” Brooke took a couple of steps away from him, her feet heavy in the strappy shoes. “I’m sorry. I really am. Some other time, maybe…”

She thought he was going to let her go without another word, but before she’d reached the corner, she heard his footsteps pounding up behind her. Her heart leaped as she spun to face him.

But he didn’t try to stop her. Instead, he dropped his jacket around her shoulders. “Here, you’ll need this.” He wrapped the heavy, faded denim tightly around her body. His arms were bars of steel, hugging her. “It’s chilly out here.”

Their noses met. She tingled all over with the type of fever chill that would normally send her to bed. Not a bad prescription for tonight, either.

“But you’ll be even colder on the motorcycle.” Her voice was barely audible. “Maybe you shouldn’t be driving in your condition.”

“I’ll be okay.” He shifted, his body slowly dragging against hers, radiating heat even through the denim. Touched his tongue to her bottom lip, took a small lick. A thrill shot through her. “I can drive. You’re a good tonic for recovery. Plus, I’ll be extra careful, because I’m coming back for you tomorrow.”

He couldn’t be serious. Perhaps “tomorrow” was the equivalent of “I’ll call you.”

She didn’t know how to respond, but that didn’t really matter since she couldn’t speak. David had placed his lips near hers. She closed her eyes and waited for a kiss that didn’t quite come.

He held her lip between his teeth, ever so gently. Both of his closed around it and he nibbled. She could not move, except to close her eyes with a sound of surrender that came from deep in her throat. His tongue ran back and forth, laving the stimulated flesh he held so delicately.

Back and forth, back and forth. How could he be so patient?

Her nostrils flared, taking in air. She was trying not to pant like an animal. Her tongue had never felt so sensitive in her mouth, flicking and furling in anticipation.

With a long, warm, sucking pull, he released her lip. His face tilted back and he paused for so long she became certain that she’d collapse to the sidewalk with frustration if he didn’t complete the kiss.

The puckish grin returned, the one that lit up his eyes. “Dang, girl, you’re making my head swim.”

She shook her head at him. “Dang, girl? Where are you from?”

The grin dropped away, but he answered lightly enough. “A lil’ do-nothing, go-nowhere town in Georgia.”

“Ah, a Southerner.” As if she couldn’t tell by his accent. “I’m a Bostonian, through and through.”

His gaze skimmed her dress, what there was to see of it. “I like the northern states.”

Out of the weak, wobbly mess that was her mesmerized body, her nipples sprang up like bullets. “But you left the city.”

“Like a skunk running from its own stink.”

She smiled at his exaggerated accent. “And now you’re back…?”

“Visiting friends,” was all he said. He squeezed and released her. “Let me get my bike. I’ll walk you to the door. This might be a ritzy neighborhood, but you still can’t be wandering around alone in that dress.”

Brooke nodded, surprised by how let down she was that he hadn’t asked again for her to go with him. After that kiss, she might not have been able to say no, even though leaving window dressings scattered in public view was strictly against store policy. The conscientious employee part of her should be thrilled that now she could go back inside and finish up the job with no one the wiser except the night watchman.

It would be as if putting on the dress and meeting David Carerra had never happened.

But I’ll know. I’ll remember for the rest of my life that once I could have run off with a sweet-talking stranger, but was too chicken to take the chance.

ON THE WAY to work the next morning, Brooke stopped off at a newsstand and bought the early edition of every newspaper she could find. She took them to a coffee shop and sat down with a double espresso. After working until two in the morning, then tossing and turning in bed when she should have been sleeping, she needed the extra jolt of caffeine.

After a healthy swallow and a mental kick in the scaredy-pants, she paged through the first paper. Nothing. Thank you, God.

She picked up the Insider. The trashy tabloid had never darkened a Winfield doorstep, but she was familiar with it because it had been the guilty pleasure of her mother and her friend, Reba. Primarily Reba, who considered herself an insider in the entertainment industry because she’d done some modeling in the mad, mod world of the sixties and seventies.

Brooke found a small item on an inside page about David’s accident. DISGRACED BASEBALL HERO KISSES CEMENT. Nice.

There were two small photos. Her stomach dropped into her shoes, but a quick scan relieved her anxiety. One showed the overturned motorcycle. The other was of David leaving the hospital with a bruised face and bandaged head, strong-arming a photographer. Brooke was a blur in the corner of the shot, mentioned only as an unidentified female companion. The intimation was that she was a pickup from his night out on the town. She might have been insulted at that, but under the circumstances she could only feel fortunate. She’d lucked out, big time.

The remaining papers were equally unremarkable. One sports reporter speculated about Carerra’s return to the city, suggesting that he would soon rejoin the team. She wondered if that was true. David’s attitude hadn’t been reconciliatory. He’d seemed rather downbeat, in fact, except when he’d been hitting on her.

Brooke left the papers in the coffee shop and hurried on to work. Usually she would come in late the morning after a window change, but there was a department-head meeting today that she had to attend. Alyce was worried that a vanguard of old-time employees were planning to complain again about them pushing O.M. Worthington in a new, trendier direction.

After dropping off her bag in her office and changing from flats to a pair of designer heels, purchased frugally with her employee discount, Brooke rode the elevator to the fourth-floor executive offices. At two and three, several of her coworkers boarded.

“The new window is lovely,” said the housewares manager, a tiny blue-haired lady who’d been at the store so long rumor said that she’d started out selling rug beaters to Victorians.

Floyd Tibbet from accounting harrumphed. “It was a relief to see the last one go.”

Brooke held up her portfolio of drawings. “Wait’ll you see what I’ve planned for Valentine’s.” She was usually as sweet as pie to the old-school vanguard, but this morning it gave her a perverse thrill to see Floyd’s nostrils quiver.

The elevator thudded to a stop and the uniformed operator rolled back the gate with a rattle. Alyce Simmons was waiting. She took Brooke aside as the others rushed to grab up the best pastries from the basket on the coffee cart outside the meeting room.

With one blink, Alyce had scanned Brooke from head to toe. Brooke thought of the head fashion buyer as a very snappish woman. Snap decisions, snap judgment, snap remarks, snap dresser.

Alyce’s eyebrow went up. She did a wicked one-up, one-down eyebrow expression that made even Mr. Worthington take account of himself. “Late night?”

Brooke put a hand on her hair, freshly skinned into a chignon she’d dressed with a splashy print scarf. With her hoop earrings and a stark black formfitting suit, she’d felt very retro 70s glam. “It shows?”

Alyce blinked. “I was kidding. You look a tad tired around the eyes, but you don’t do late nights.”

“Not that kind.” Brooke’s fingers tightened on the portfolio. “I was dressing a window.”

“Ah.” Alyce nodded.

“What’s the scoop?” Brooke asked.

“More of the same. Snips and snails.” Alyce dug a stiletto heel into the marble floor. “Nothing I can’t grind out.”

“The new windows and in-store displays should mollify them. I’m not doing anything too unusual for Christmas, either.”

“Heaven forbid.” Alyce checked her platinum watch. On the dot of nine, she marched into the meeting room with a toss of her head. Her hair was red, almost magenta, and extremely short. She was probably fifty, but looked a decade younger.

Mr. Worthington was already seated at the head of the table. Alyce kissed him on the cheek and swooped into the chair at his right hand, earning daggered looks from several of the blue-hairs.

The meeting progressed swiftly, with only a minor skirmish when several of the vanguard protested Alyce’s plan to buy heavily from the lines of the season’s hottest designers. She quashed them with one upraised eyebrow and a clipped comment about who was in charge of fashion.

When Brooke’s turn came, she updated the gathering on the Christmas windows, which had been under development for months.

“And what’s upcoming?” Mr. Worthington asked. He peered at her through his heavy horn-rimmed glasses. “Anything to make my hair turn white?”

The department heads laughed heartily. The old man’s hair had once been snowy white. Now not a strand remained.

Brooke pulled out the sketches for her February windows. “We’re doing lingerie for Valentine’s Day.”

The nearest coworker, who’d gotten a glimpse of the top drawing, let out a gasp. As a group, the vanguard leaned in for a look, scowling already. Not good.

Only Alyce nodded approvingly.

Brooke steeled herself to continue. Old Man Worthington was friends with her grandfather, Admiral Henry Winfield. He liked her, sort of. “As you’ll see in the drawings, my theme is Sweet Nothings…”

3

BROOKE was forced to interrupt her busy day to race back to Brookline to keep a lunch date with her grandparents and sisters. Henry and Evelyn Winfield were old money and old school. They couldn’t seem to grasp that their granddaughters’ careers might take precedence over a command performance at the family estate. When the invitations came down, Brooke, Joey and Katie dutifully showed up, even if that meant rearranging their schedules.

“Where’s Katie?” Brooke whispered to Joey as soon as their grandmother excused herself to check on the kitchen staff. They were seated in the front parlor with less-than-stiff drinks—tonic water and lime.

“She made an excuse.” Joey wrinkled her nose. “Something creative, like going ballooning at sunrise with a million-dollar client. You know how good she is at coming up with that stuff.”

Katie was a party girl first and graphic artist second, so her flights of fancy were often true. Brooke envied that. But then, Katie was the youngest and had always been granted more license to experiment, even from their grandparents. She was indulged.

Brooke was scolded. She’d heard the same refrain, seemingly from birth: As the oldest, she must set a proper example for her sisters by living up to Winfield standards.

Her late father had been a Navy man, strict but loving. He’d expected achievement and obedience from all of his daughters. Her mother had tried not to apply that pressure, but since she’d also knuckled under to the Winfield rules, for the most part, Brooke had taken her cues from Daisy. While Brooke’s rebellions were rare, she had made a few stands—a preference for rock music, the insistence on an artistic career, her refusal to marry Marcus Finch, a family friend who’d received their stamp of approval.

No wonder her inner wild woman was buried so deep. She had generations of Winfield expectations to dig out from under.

“I wish I dared try that,” Brooke said with a sigh, thinking of Katie’s excuses. Maybe her conduct, too. Perhaps the Martinis and Bikinis club would give Brooke the boost she needed in that direction. Taking a dare might not be the most terrible thing in the world.

Joey leaned back in a chintz wing chair with her legs crossed. Her navy pinstripe suit was both conservative and sexy at the same time, an interesting effect caused by a jacket that was a little too tight and a skirt that was a little too short.

She swung a foot in circles while she studied Brooke. “Something’s up with you.”

Brooke started. “How’d you know?”

“You have that worried look you always get when you’ve done a bad deed. Remember how you’d go and confess to Mom or Dad, even before they found out?” Joey smirked. “’Fess up, Brookie.”

“It’s nothing.” Brooke resisted gnawing on a knuckle. Sure, meeting Boston’s most infamous bad boy and running around the city without panties was a great big nothing. “Work stuff.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Brooke shifted, avoiding her sister’s sharp gaze as she reached for her drink.

Joey knew. She always knew. She was a whip-smart trial lawyer, even if she still lived at their grandparents’ beck and call in the converted carriage house out back.

“Luncheon is served,” their grandmother announced. She waited for them to join her, then linked their arms and proceeded to the dining room. She’d been slightly more demonstrative since their mother’s death. Kinder and gentler, too, although of course that didn’t mean that standards had lapsed.

The Admiral was already seated at the head of the table. He was in his late eighties, grown more sickly and fragile since the loss of his son and daughter-in-law. While he’d retained his military posture, he relied on a cane to get around, or sometimes a wheelchair. Frequently a nurse was in attendance.

Joey and Brooke greeted him in turn, dropping pecks on a high forehead that still bore a fringe of silver hair.

Brooke took her place midway down the lengthy mahogany table, with Joey across from her. “How are you, Grandfather?”

He huffed. “As well as can be expected.”

A maid served plates of broiled fish and steamed vegetables. “Yummy,” Joey said, tongue in cheek. “Pass the rolls.”

Evelyn gave her a look. “And how have you girls been? We don’t hear from you nearly often enough. Please catch us up on your busy lives.”

Subtle as a paper cut, Brooke thought. That was her grandmother’s way.

“Same old.” Joey nodded across the table with a flick of her short blond hair. “But Brooke’s in trouble at work.”

That caught the Admiral’s attention. His head swung around. “Old Worthy giving you a hard time?”

“Not at all. He’s in my corner.” Brooke had begun to wonder if she’d uncovered a dirty old man, considering how Mr. Worthington had practically salivated over her provocative sketches for the Valentine’s windows. He hadn’t approved the concept. Instead, he’d taken the plans with him, for further “study.”

Her grandmother cleared her throat with a ladylike cough. “Do you need a champion, Brooke?”

“Well, not exactly.” Brooke tried not to squirm. Winfields practiced proper table etiquette at all times. “I have been pushing the envelope a bit with my window displays.”

“Yes.” Evelyn’s lips puckered. “I saw the September windows.” She swiftly moved on. Winfields did not discuss unpleasant subjects during meals. They’d yet to openly acknowledge the revelation about their daughter-in-law Daisy’s other daughter. “And how is Katie? Do either of you know?”

“Keeping busy with Liam,” Joey said.

Brooke concentrated on spearing a slippery carrot. Liam James, Katie’s new lover, was still a slightly sore subject, although he and Brooke had stopped seeing each other before he’d started going out with Katie. Brooke believed that Liam had seen her only as a suitable choice for an ambitious, upwardly mobile executive. He’d been more interested in his work than her. By all accounts, Katie had ensnared his attention more fully.

Brooke couldn’t help feeling as if she’d been outshined… again.

She tuned in to the conversation as her grandmother remarked, “Perhaps we’ll finally get a great-grandchild.”

Joey chuckled. “Let’s hold a wedding first.”

Evelyn’s expression said that a Winfield would do it no other way. Smoothly, she switched subjects. “Brooke, dear, I hear that you’ve been asked to donate a painting to the Ladies’ League art auction. I do hope you’ll follow through, after turning down the opportunity to chair the clothing drive.”

“Certainly.” Why not? She’d wrap up one of her inoffensive still-life paintings and the ladies would think it charming.

“Excellent.”

Brooke nodded. Earning her grandparents’ approval had lost its vital importance since her mother’s death. Yet she continued to comply with her training, like a human version of Pavlov’s dog.

“The event should go over well. They have acquired the services of a celebrity auctioneer. A baseball player.”

Brooke perked up. “Oh? Do you know who?”

“I don’t recall the name.”

“Not David Carerra,” She blurted. Surely not.

“Him?” The Admiral snorted.

“Carerra’s back in town,” Joey said. “I read it in this morning’s paper. He’s already causing trouble.”

Evelyn shook her head with disapproval. “Then I’m certain it wasn’t him. The Ladies’ League has impeccable standards.”

Joey’s mention of the papers had given Brooke a small shock, but she couldn’t contain her curiosity. “I don’t really understand why Da—Carerra went from hero to goat all of a sudden. What did he do that was so terrible?”

“Let down the team,” the Admiral barked. “Unforgivable.”

“He quit, Brooke.” Even Joey scowled. “That might not have been so bad if it hadn’t come at such a lousy time, but he was the only one on the team who was playing any good. The Sox never recovered. And those damn Yankees—” she said the name of the hated rivals with all the scorn she could muster “—won the pennant.”

“Yes, but doesn’t anyone remember how Carerra won the World Series? That should keep him in the fans’ good graces no matter what happened the past season.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Over time, he’ll probably be forgiven for quitting, but not yet.”

For some reason, Brooke found herself riled up inside, ready to leap to David’s defense, but she managed to tamp it down and only added in a mild tone, “He might have had his reasons for that.”

Joey looked at her curiously.

Fortunately, Evelyn had had enough of baseball and she channeled the conversation toward another topic before Brooke could give her true feelings away. They finished lunch soon after, and the sisters excused themselves to return to work. On the way out, Joey asked Brooke if she wanted to run back to the carriage house for a real drink. She declined, knowing Joey and her skill at cross-examination; she’d worm the entire story of the previous evening out of Brooke in no time.

She wanted to cherish her secret, almost scandalous adventure for a while longer.

Brooke got into her car and pulled out her cell phone to check for messages. Nothing from David, even though he’d asked for her number before firing up the motorcycle and driving away with only a casual goodbye flick of his visor. Despite a hollow sense of disappointment, she told herself that she hadn’t expected him to contact her. But she knew the truth—a brief encounter with him wasn’t going to be enough.

She needed to make some sort of shocking change to her life, whether or not David called. A lasting change. So what if she’d resolved that before? This time she was following through. If David had done nothing else for her, at least he had lit a spark that continued to burn.

ALMOST SIX O’CLOCK. Brooke switched off the hard-rock radio station she’d been listening to on the radio and surveyed the mess she’d made of her desk and drafting table. Balled-up papers, scattered colored pencils and art markers, the refuse of a mid-afternoon snack, a lopsided stack of magazines and reference books. She closed her eyes for a minute, summoning up the willpower to set it all right, a task that was usually second nature to her.

Just once, she was tempted to leave the disorder as it was. But she knew she’d regret that tomorrow when coming in and finding a mess would put her in a bad mood for the rest of the morning.

That, and the fact that David still hadn’t called.

She snorted and jumped to her feet, suddenly determined to mow through the cleanup. Even the Gaultier dress and stilettos hadn’t been enough to entice him. What hope did the real Brooke Winfield have?

Alyce strolled in, making a rare appearance in what she considered the bowels of the building, where only the display department dwelled. Brooke tried not to be insulted. Her department consisted solely of one part-time assistant and three rooms—her office, a studio workroom and storage space. Granted, natural light would have been nice. However, neither vermin nor dirt were allowed, no matter what some believed.

“Ready for cocktails?” Alyce brandished the drawings for the February windows. “We’ve got something to celebrate.”

Brooke saw the stamp on the back of the sheets. “O.M. approved them?”

“I think it was the ruby-studded thong in the shape of a heart that put him over the top. How evil are we, turning a nice old man into a lech?”

Brooke took the drawings and tucked them safely away in the leather portfolio. “You realize we’re going to draw fire from Lois and Floyd and Genevieve in the executive suite. She’s been working on IV.” IV, as in intravenous fluids, was the employee nickname for O.M. Worthington the Fourth, who was the Chief Operating Officer of the department store and far more conservative than his father.

“Eh.” Alyce shrugged. “Throw a Teflon girdle in the window as a nod to the vanguard.” She looked around and shuddered at the stone walls and wooden beams that Brooke believed gave the rooms an interesting character. “Have you finished swabbing the decks? There’s a Grey Goose honking my name.”

Brooke checked her cell one last time. Her heart almost stopped when she saw she had a text from David.

Get ready. I’m coming for you.

“He’s coming for me,” she said in a drained, disbelieving voice.

Alyce’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Oh.” Brooke put a hand to her hair. In an instant, she’d forgotten there was another person in the room. “It’s someone I met the other night.”

“What night?”

“Last night.”

“When you were working?” Alyce smirked. “I knew it. Who is he?”

Brooke licked her lips. “David Carerra.”

“How do I know that name?”

“You would if you were a baseball fan.”

“He’s a baseball player? That’s fast-track, honey.” Alyce was clearly skeptical that Brooke could keep up. “And he’s coming here to pick you up for a date?”

“I—I think so.”

Alyce snapped her fingers. “We’ll have to do something about your clothes. Fast.” She spun on her heel, calling, “Be right back!” over her shoulder.

Brooke’s knees went out. She sank into her desk chair, compulsively checking the screen on the cell. No, she hadn’t imagined it. Yes, the message was clear.

Get ready. I’m coming for you.

But that didn’t mean she had to go.

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Brooke was ready, but still unsure, when the knock came at the security entrance in the back of the store. Alyce had returned with a dress and boots she’d snatched off the racks and had listened to none of Brooke’s protests as she affected a quick makeover.

In truth, Brooke’s objections had been mild. The experience of wearing the leather minidress had taught her a few lessons about the power of fashion. Looking good translated to feeling confident. Looking sexy meant her inhibitions were much easier to ignore. Looking really, really sexy was…well, she would soon find out.

If she dared.

DAVID HADN’T KNOWN what to expect. Maybe Brooke, smiling with welcome or frowning with regrets. Maybe even a security guard. For all he knew, his message might have rubbed her the wrong way.

What he hadn’t expected was a woman who oozed so much sex appeal he could taste it. And feel it, too, from the standing-room-only roar in his head to the thickening below his belt.

“Brooke?”

She nodded. Yes, it was her.

He exhaled and said, “You’re beautiful,” because he couldn’t say that she’d given him wood as hard as a baseball bat.

“Too dressy?” Her hands smoothed the champagne garment over her hips. It covered more of her than the leather one, yet she appeared almost nude. He couldn’t figure that out, except that the shimmering fabric really clung to her curves. When she moved, the light hit the dress and it seemed semi-sheer. Her breasts, her thighs, the suggestion of a shadow between them—he could see almost everything, and his imagination filled in the rest. Just when he thought he was going to have a heart attack, she turned and the dress went back to being just a dress.

“You’ll be on the back of my bike,” he said. Damn, he should have hired a limo. She deserved the best.

Yeah, then what’s she doing with you?

“That’s what the boots are for.” She wore knee-high boots, white ones with steep heels. “And I have a jacket.”

“Then let’s go.” Real suave. No wonder she seemed hesitant. “I promised you a night you wouldn’t forget.”

“Yes, you did.” She looked down and her loose, tousled hair fell forward around her face, the glossy brown waves brushing her pinkened cheeks. Her lashes were thick and dark, her eyelids painted platinum to match the dress. She was more put together than last time—and more restrained.

Maybe she’d had second thoughts. Anyone would, reading the newspaper accounts that made him sound like a shiftless drunk. Just like his old man.

“I didn’t know if you’d really come back,” Brooke said softly.

“Why wouldn’t I?” He held out his hand, suddenly more confident. She was shy, not reluctant.

“Come with me,” he coaxed. “Please.”

Go with him, said the voice inside Brooke’s head.

Growing up, wanting for nothing, yet always living her life within the bounds of the family’s expectations, there’d never been a voice. Not one peep of objection from an inner wild child. But ever since the truth about her mother had started coming out, and Brooke had learned that Lindsay Beckham, the intimidatingly self-possessed president of the Martinis and Bikinis club, was actually her half-sister, a new voice had taken hold inside.

The voice contained many shades—Alyce, who’d encouraged Brooke to break out at work; her sisters, who’d shared the same experiences but had somehow managed to avoid suffocating under their weight; even her mother, whom Brooke now realized had practiced subversive rebellions in her own small ways. Primarily, though, Brooke believed that the voice sounded a lot like Lindsay.

Fierce, independent Lindsay, who dared everything, while Brooke dared nothing.

Go with him.

And so she did.

BROOKE’S STOMACH swooped as David sped around a rotary, one of Boston’s traffic circles, at top speed. She’d grown up in Brookline, gone to Wellesley for her MFA, lived and worked in Boston proper for six years before returning to the suburbs to care for her mother for the past year. The city’s maniac drivers didn’t scare her. She’d even been known to fling curse words and bang a few U-eys herself, in her nifty silver Toyota Prius.

But she’d never risked her life on the back of a motorcycle, at the whims and reflexes of a daredevil. By the time they’d negotiated their way through a quicksilver tour of the city, her heart was stuck permanently in her mouth and she’d begun to wonder if David Carerra had a death wish.

The bike slowed, but she didn’t look up. She felt much safer with her head tucked against David’s back and her fingernails slicing through his clothing to the bare skin beneath.

They turned, then stopped, idling. He put a booted foot on the ground and the bike tilted, just enough to make a squeak fly out of her mouth.

He chuckled. “You can open your eyes now.”

“Are we here?”

“Yep.” He cut off the motor. She continued vibrating. “Trattoria Vicenzi. My favorite North End Italian restaurant. Take a look.”

She unclenched her hands and lifted her head. The steamy visor obscured her vision. Apparently she’d been breathing after all.

David twisted around to lift off her unwieldy helmet. She swiped a palm over her sweaty forehead and took bearings. They were in an alleyway. A narrow, shadowy, stinking alleyway, complete with an overflowing Dumpster and a wraith of a cat that disappeared behind a heap of produce containers.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, regretting her promise to kiss the ground if they arrived safely.

David swung a leg over the front of the bike and stood with a groan that told her he was still feeling the effects of his accident. “Don’t go by looks, darlin’.”

Brooke nodded without taking her eyes off him. He was not smoothly handsome or sophisticated like most of the men she’d dated. But it was that very difference that had engaged her. His earthiness, his lack of pretension was refreshing. With every minute they were together, she felt herself easing away from the uptight Brooke and inching toward the freedom she craved.

Her job was all about visuals. She was an aesthetic creature, raised with money and privilege, accustomed to the finer things in life. But she’d also learned to look for beauty in unconventional places, thanks to Elway Sinclair, a window dresser as revered as Worthington itself. Elway had taken Brooke under his wing when she’d first been hired at the store. He’d sent her out onto to the streets of Boston with a camera, sketchpad and the instruction that she must find inspiration from every nook and cranny of the city, before she became an uptight Beacon Hill Brahmin.

David was a good reminder that she had become complacent in recent years, forgetting to stretch her boundaries beyond Newbury Street and Hawthorn Lane.

Brooke traced a finger across the fogged visor. Not tonight. Tonight, she was alight with sensation. Her body was cold and trembling on the surface, but ridden with rivers of molten fire underneath.

David extended a hand.

She gave him hers, sliding off the bike as discreetly as she could in a dress that was slit up to mid-thigh. His hand felt like a baseball glove—big, warm, leathery, enveloping. She glanced sidelong at him as they ducked beneath a low brick arch and descended a short flight of steps to an underground back entrance. Even stiff and bruised, he moved like a well-oiled athlete. The fire inside her bubbled another millimeter closer to the surface.

A short, dank hall gave way to bright lights and stainless steel, steam and heat and noise. Cleavers swung, water sprayed, pans sizzled. Shouts went up when David appeared. Brooke lost his hand as he was surrounded by cooks in dirty aprons, who clapped him on the back and called out, “Paisano!”

“Can we get a table—something out of the way?” David broke free and put his arm around her. “This is Brooke.”

Gestures of approval punctuated the calls of “Ciao, bella,” and “Caldo.”

Brooke’s bare skin prickled despite the heat in the kitchen. Overwhelmed by the lively greeting that was so different from the murmuring maître d’ she’d expected, she could only lift a hand and give a tiny wave. She wanted new experiences and this certainly qualified.

They were led from the kitchen by one of the cooks. The dining room was dark and labyrinthine, with several private nooks. They were given a nice corner spot, with a round table so small they knocked knees when they sat. David asked for the night’s special and a bottle of expensive wine.

“Pio Cesare Barolo?” Brooke opened the napkin, a big one that covered her lap. “Do good old southern boys know about wine?”

“They do when they were adopted by Italian sugar beet farmers.”

“Italian sugar beet farmers?” She was delighted. “Is there such a thing?”

“Sure. Mama and Papa Carerra. But I was thirteen when I went to live with them, so I call them Marie and Geno.”

She chafed her thighs beneath the napkin. “Isn’t it unusual to be adopted when you’re thirteen?”

His gaze held steady. “Sixteen, actually. They were my foster parents before the adoption.”

“I’m sorry you lost your parents.”

“I didn’t lose them. They lost me.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t sure what he meant. They were alive? She wanted to ask, and the hard, bright jewels that were his eyes practically dared her to ask, but her Bostonian reserve wouldn’t allow it. “I lost both of mine,” she said instead. “My dad of a heart attack. My mother passed on only a few months ago. Pancreatic cancer.”

David touched her arm. “That’s rough.”

Brooke nodded, having to swallow the wave of grief that rose unexpectedly. When she was certain she could speak without a tremor, she unclenched her teeth. “It’s been complicated, too.” She found herself speaking in a rush, telling him—a virtual stranger—about the events that loomed so large in her mind. She didn’t know why, except that she was comfortable with him. And she wanted to make a connection beyond wearing a sexy dress and flirting. “My sisters and I recently learned that my mother had been hiding a secret past during her entire marriage. We have a half-sister we never knew about.”

His eyebrows went up.

A brief chuckle rasped her throat. “Turns out that our family history isn’t as stodgy as we’d always believed.”

His gaze dropped to her plunging V-neckline. “You don’t seem stodgy to me.”

“My ancestors.” On impulse, she sat taller, letting her lightweight coverup slip off her shoulders. David scanned the dress—her body—with an appreciation so intense his gaze was like a green laser beam passing over her. A scorching green laser beam. “I’m not stodgy,” she said, which would have usually been a lie, but not tonight. “Not in the least.”

“Absolutely not,” he echoed in a lazy, singsong voice so warm and welcoming it felt like lounging in a hammock on a summer day.

She wanted to bask in it, even though she suspected that he’d seen through her charade and was teasing her again. “I like your accent, Georgia.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “I like yours, too, Boston.”

“Brookline,” she said. “I live in Brookline now. Again, that is. I grew up there, and moved back home when my mother became ill. We had a nurse, too, but she wanted—I wanted—we all wanted a family member there with her.”

“And they chose you, the artsy rebel of the bunch?”

Ah, the power of a sexy dress. He really had the wrong idea about her. She loved it.

“I’m also the oldest,” she explained. And the most responsible. But both Joey and Katie had been there to help, visiting often, spelling Brooke whenever they saw she was overwhelmed, especially in those final months when her mother had been in and out of the hospital.

“You’re not anymore,” David said.

“What?” She pressed her fingertips to the corners of her eyes and gave her head a shake. “Oh. You mean being the oldest. I keep forgetting about that. It’s strange.”

“Like getting a new identity. One you didn’t ask for.”

“Yes!” She looked at him, struck by his insight. Her sisters had been shocked by the revelation about Lindsay, of course, but their positions in the family hadn’t changed significantly. Joey was still a middle sibling, straddling the line between proper behavior and improper sass. Katie remained the free-spirited baby sister.

Only Brooke, who’d always taken her role as the big sister very seriously, had been completely displaced.

But maybe that’s good for you, she told herself. Maybe that’s part of why you feel so different tonight.

“It’s like I’m not me anymore,” she said. Worse, her identity had been altered without her consent. “Especially with my mother gone, too.”

Her father, John Winfield, had been the rock of the family, and Daisy Winfield had been the heart. While her grandparents remained on their estate and there was Great Aunt Josephine next door, keeping a stern eye on her nieces, the family she’d always counted on would never be the same.

“I know what that’s like,” David said in a wry tone.

Before she could ask why, a waiter in black pants and a crisp white shirt arrived with the bottle of wine. “On the house,” he said while pouring their glasses. “Courtesy of Mr. Vicenzi.”

The waiter departed. “Freebies,” Brooke said, heartened at the further evidence that David wasn’t as friendless as it had first appeared. “So it seems you aren’t despised everywhere.”

He shrugged, absently swirling the wine.

She remembered that he was on pain medication. “You shouldn’t be drinking with a head injury.”

She’d asked earlier how he was feeling. He’d been cavalier in brushing off the severity of the accident, claiming he had only a few bumps and bruises. The wide bandage that had wrapped his head was now a large patch over his temple.

“I never follow the rules.” He lifted the glass. “I’ll have a couple of sips, to be polite.”

“All right.” She touched their glasses. “Cheers to those who wish us well.”

“All the rest can go to hell.” He tipped his glass and drank with gusto, one long pull that drew her eyes to his strong neck. He had muscles there, too. He probably even had muscles in his pinkie toes.

“Let’s not consign them to hell.” She put a hand on his, urging him to put the glass down. “Maybe a few hours in a sauna cranked high.”

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “I suspect that you don’t have enemies.”

After a moment’s thought about the old guard at work, who couldn’t really be called enemies, Brooke conceded. “I guess not.” She’d led a remarkably inoffensive life. “How did you know?”

“I can’t imagine anyone hating you.”

“Aww.” She patted his hand. “I don’t really believe that you’re hated, either.”

He laughed without humor. “Maybe you haven’t been reading the papers this past summer.”

“That’s not you. Not the real you. I’ve only known you for a few hours and already I can tell that. The cooks didn’t seem to think so either. Or Mr. Vicenzi.”

“So all I have to do to repair my rep is go around introducing myself to strangers on the street.”

“Do you care that much?” She thought he did. His flippant sarcasm didn’t cover the wounds.

He shook shaggy bangs out of his eyes. “Nah.”

“Are you sure? Maybe that’s why you returned to Boston.”

“To be chased down and cornered like a coon? If I had my druthers, I’d leave that particular pleasure to someone else.”

“But you came back anyway, to visit a friend. Must be a pretty good friend.”

“A teammate,” he said shortly. Heavily. His defenses were dropping into place like a solid garage door. “Ex-teammate.”

She switched tactics. “You could give an interview, tell your side.” Although she hadn’t followed David’s story in the press very closely, she recalled that it had been fired by speculation after his abrupt, unexplained departure. “I don’t remember ever reading your actual reasons for leaving the team.”

His lip curled and the look in his eyes gave her blood a chill. “That’s because I don’t make excuses.”

Bang went the door.

4

DAVID KNEW HE WAS a miserable cur, snarling at Brooke the way he had, but as their meal proceeded, he realized that she wasn’t fazed. She stayed cool for a while in her ladylike way, but then the entrées came and no one could stop from smiling and relaxing with a mouthful of the best puttanesca and chicken Marsala this side of Italy.

Not even him.

“Mm-mmm.” She set her fork and knife at precise angles on the cleared plate and settled back to dab her mouth with the napkin. “I’d tell my friends about this place, but then they’d tell their friends, and so on, until Michelin was here, brandishing stars. And then even you would need reservations.”

He finished off a bit of focaccia, feeling shiny, as if there was butter on his cheeks. “Should we order dessert?”

“I couldn’t.”

“They have panna cotta.”

“Please, don’t tempt me.” She put her hand on her stomach. “I’ll burst out of this dress.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “I’d pay to see that.”

A strand of her rich brown hair fell forward and she pushed it back with a lazy hand. Her lids must have been heavy; she gazed at him with her bedroom eyes gone all soft and sleepy. “That won’t happen. This fabric has Lycra.” She plucked at the draped neckline and the metallic threads glinted. “It has more stretch than you’d think.”

“Well, dang.”

She giggled. “I love it when you use southern vernacular. Give me more.”

He scratched the edge of his bandage. “Vernacular, huh?”

“Dialect. The way you talk.”

“Darlin’, I know what vernacular means.” He winked. “I went to college.”

“Of course you did.” She propped her chin on her hand. “You probably had more of a traditional education than me. I got a master’s in fine arts.”

“Hold on, there. I didn’t say I graduated.” He paused while their table was cleared. “After two years of college baseball, a minor-league scout got hold of me and said I’d be better off putting in the time on a pro team. I spent the next six years knocking around the bush leagues before finally getting called up to The Show.” Brooke looked somewhat dazed, so he added, “You know, the major leagues.”

“I know.” Her grin spread like molasses. “I saw Bull Durham.”

“Touché.”

“I’m impressed, even if it took you six years.”

“Yeah, well, I was never what you’d call a star. Too slow, only so-so with the glove, but at least I could hit. I played second-string for the Milwaukee Brewers for a couple of years before being traded to the Sox, where I earned a permanent spot on the bench. Coach threatened to carve my name on it.”

“Until the World Series.”

“That’s right.” He was talking too much, and he couldn’t even blame the wine because Brooke had stolen his glass after he’d emptied the first one. Her concern was sweet. He wasn’t used to sweet.

“What was that like?” she asked. “Playing in the World Series?”

“Crazy.”

“Come on, you have to tell me more than that. I’ll never have dinner again with a man who came up to bat with two outs in the ninth inning of the seventh game and hit a home run that won the Series for the Sox.”

David opened his hands in a shrug. He’d given a lot of interviews in the weeks afterward, and lived to regret it when Bobby Cook had started sniffing around to find the “real” David Carerra story, hoping to uncover a scandal that would make his name as a reporter. “Honestly, I can hardly remember. It was an out-of-body experience.”

Brooke tilted toward him, still smiling, and he could see tiny, deep dimples cut into the very corners of her mouth. “You must remember something. Tell me.”

He shut his eyes. “The crowd in the stadium was roaring, so loud I could feel the vibrations in my bones. Except I was numb on the surface. I couldn’t feel my hands on the bat as I warmed up. None of it seemed real. But I was there, doing it.” He looked at her over steepled fingers. “The relief pitcher was a fireballer. I swung hard and missed. I felt that, all right, when my body corkscrewed around so tight my cleats got stuck in the ground.”

“You missed twice,” she said. “You had two strikes.”

“That’s right. Were you at the game?”

She shook her head. “My sister Joey went, the lucky duck. She got tickets through her law firm. My mother was already sick then, so the rest of us watched at home. Mom’s friend, Reba, almost passed out when you got the hit, but that might have been because of the Boilermakers she was drinking.” Brooke laced her fingers around his. “You must have felt it when you hit the home run. The crack of the bat was loud.”

“Yeah. I felt it.” The jolt had juddered right up his arms, into his shoulders.

“And then?”

“That’s when I go blank.” He stroked the veins that traced her fragile wrist. “I never saw the ball go out of the park, but I knew immediately that it was a home run. And I’ve seen the replay since then, so I know I ran the bases, but I don’t really remember any of it until my teammates attacked me at the plate.”

Brooke squeezed his hand. “You were in the dirt at the bottom of the pile. I remember how cute you looked afterward, giving interviews with a smudged face.”

David felt good inside, for once getting to reminisce without thinking too hard about the taint of later events. “Like I said, it was crazy.”

“We were jumping and laughing and yelling at home, too, making more noise in the house than we had in years. Reba, Katie and I danced around the coffee table until our aunt said we’d fall on Mom if we didn’t quit.” Brooke’s smile faded as she became more contemplative. “We’d only recently learned how sick she was. Having the playoffs to get excited about was no little thing. You gave my mom a real thrill. So, you know…thank you.”

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