SARAH MAYBERRY has recently decided to list her profession as Gypsy/writer, since she’s moved eight times in the past five years. Currently she’s based in Auckland, New Zealand, but she still calls Melbourne, Australia, home and hopes to have a latte on Brunswick Street sometime soon. When she’s not writing books, she also writes for TV, reads, cooks, shops for shoes and tries to get her derrière to the gym occasionally.

Every book is a journey and I wouldn’t have been able to take this one without Chris holding my hand, as always. I love you.

Then there is my editor, the amazing and talented Wanda, who always steers me right—thank you for listening to me ramble and curse and always, somehow, managing to sound interested no matter how long it goes on.

And lastly, thanks to Mihiteria, for helping me keep writing and laughing even when sometimes it felt like an uphill battle.

She’s Got It Bad
Sarah Mayberry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright

Prologue

Melbourne, Australia October 1997

IT WAS SO DARK that Liam Masters could barely see his hand in front of his face. His boots scuffed against an uneven stretch of concrete as he turned from the Fords’ driveway onto the paved path that led through their backyard. He could just make out the paleness of the studio ahead, a less-dark shape in all the blackness.

If he’d stayed at the party, he’d probably be peeling off Sally Kendrick’s underwear by now. At seventeen, he had more than enough experience to know when he was going to get lucky.

He had no idea why he’d decided to come home instead.

Stupid, that’s what he was.

A shadow moved against the side of the studio as he reached into his pocket for his keys. He froze, muscles tensing. Then he heard someone take a deep, shaky breath and the smell of honeysuckle reached him on the warm night air.

Zoe.

He pushed his hands into his back pockets. The safest place for them when Zoe Ford was around.

“You’re home early,” she said.

“What are you doing out here?” His voice came out sharper, harder than he’d intended.

“Waiting for you.”

He didn’t know what to do with her straight-up answer.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said. “What if Tom comes home?”

Her brother was wildly protective of her. Liam didn’t need to see her face to know that she was frowning. Could picture her dark eyebrows knitting together, the stubbornness in her green eyes.

“I’m sick of waiting,” she said.

Shit.

He wished he hadn’t downed those three beers at the party. His brain was fuzzy, not as crisp as he needed it to be when he was within touching distance of his best friend’s little sister.

“No one asked you to wait,” he said.

They weren’t talking about him coming home from the party to find her on the front step of his temporary home. They both knew that.

“Is it true?” she asked.

“What?”

“What Tom told me. Is it true you’re going out with Sally Kendrick?”

“You need to go inside before your parents hear us,” he said.

“Are you going out with her or not?” Zoe’s voice was shaking.

“No.”

He should have lied. Told her he and Sally were nuts about each other, that he’d just rolled out of her bed.

“Is that why you’re home early? Because things didn’t work out with Sally?”

She’d moved closer, within reach. He could see the pale oval of her face, smell the sweet honeysuckle smell of her favorite body lotion.

She’s fifteen, man. Fifteen, and the daughter of the people who took you in when no one else wanted you.

He needed to make her go inside, back to her own bedroom, back to her single bed and her walls covered with posters of heavy-metal bands and football teams.

“I don’t know why I came home,” he said.

She took another step closer. What little light there was glinted off her eyes.

“Kiss me,” she said. “Please.”

He clenched his hands into the denim of his jeans.

“You have to go inside.” His voice sounded low and too quiet. Unconvincing. Desperate.

She must have thought so, too, because she took a last step and closed the distance between them. He could feel the warmth of her body, the brush of her small, firm breasts against his chest, the whisper of her breath on his neck.

“I can’t stand it anymore, Liam. Sitting opposite you at breakfast and dinner, seeing you at school, at home. I can’t stop thinking about you. Please kiss me.”

Every muscle in his body tensed as she slid her arms around his waist. She pressed her body against his, her hands clutching at his back. She lifted her head, and her hair skimmed his chin as she pressed tentative kisses onto his collarbone and neck. One, two, three, her mouth soft and moist.

He was already hard. Had been since the moment he caught the scent of honeysuckle. She pressed her hips against his and the pressure made him groan.

“No,” he said, reaching for her shoulders to push her away.

But somehow he was sliding his hands into her hair instead, holding her head and tilting her face toward him. Then he was kissing her, his tongue in her mouth, her taste surrounding him.

She’d never been kissed before. He knew because she’d told him two months ago. He’d been thinking about being her first ever since. He wanted to make his mark on her, make it perfect.

He stroked her tongue with his and traced her lower lip before sucking it into his mouth. She made a small sobbing sound and angled her head to give him more access. She tasted so sweet, so clean and sweet.

He slid a hand down her back to cup her backside, holding her against himself as he flexed his hips forward, feeling her mound against his erection.

He was so hard. Man, he wanted…He wanted so much he was afraid he was about to lose it.

Her hands were tugging at the bottom of his T-shirt.

“Take this off. I want to touch you,” she said.

She yanked the T-shirt up and he released his grip on her long enough for her to pull it over his head. Then her hands were on him, touching, smoothing, teasing, discovering.

He couldn’t think. Didn’t want to. As her fingers found his nipples, he broke their kiss long enough to pull his keys from his pocket. His hand was shaking so much it was a miracle he got the key in the lock. Then he was kissing her again and backing her up the few stairs and inside the studio toward his bed.

She stopped when the backs of her knees hit the mattress.

“Wait,” she said, and he heard the rustle of clothing and knew she’d tugged off her own T-shirt.

He swore under his breath. She never wore a bra, even though her mom hassled her about it. He’d wanted to touch her, hold her for so long now. Wanted to know what color her nipples were, if they were as sweet and plump as they looked through the fabric of her T-shirts.

“Zoe, I have to see you.”

He flicked the bedside lamp on and she blinked in the sudden light. Her hands came up to cover herself. He reached for them and slowly tugged them away, holding her arms out from her sides.

He sucked in a breath when he saw her, so pink and firm. Her nipples were like little berries, hard already even though he hadn’t touched them yet.

“Zoe,” he said, reaching for her.

She shuddered as he slid his hands up her torso. She felt like warm silk, so smooth and perfect. His palms covered her breasts, his thumbs finding her nipples. She bit her lip as he teased them.

“That feels so good,” she whispered, her eyes half-closed.

She looked beautiful standing there in nothing but her jeans and bare feet, her long dark hair spilling down her back, her cheeks and chest flushed. He ducked his head and kissed her again, his hands teasing all the while. She started to press her pelvis forward and he could feel her heart pounding. He ducked his head and kissed his way down her neck to her chest until he was pulling one hard little nipple into his mouth.

“Oh,” she said. Her body jerked in his arms. Her hands found his head, her fingers burrowing into his hair as she held him at her breast, her breath coming in sharp pants. “So good, Liam, so good,” she whispered over and over.

He pushed her back onto the bed and they fell together. He relished the feel of her beneath him, loving the way she instinctively opened her thighs so that he could press his hardness against the hot heart of her.

They kissed and grabbed at each other for long minutes, hips grinding together through two layers of denim, the friction exquisite but not nearly enough.

He slid a hand over her mound and found the thick seam where her jeans joined at the crotch. He pressed firmly, feeling how hot and steamy she was. Her hands grabbed at his shoulders and her hips lifted.

“Liam,” she said. “Yes.”

He rubbed her some more, and she circled her hips, her eyes closed as she gave herself over to the moment.

He wanted inside her so bad. He slid a hand to the waistband of her jeans, slipped his fingers beneath the fabric. She caught her breath and he felt her belly tense beneath his hand. Then she was widening her legs, encouraging him to keep going. He slid his hand farther, into her soft curls. She stilled as he sent a single finger probing lower.

Man, she was so wet. Hot and slippery and wet. He pressed his hard-on against her thigh as his finger slid between her folds.

“Liam!” she said. “That is…That is unbelievable!”

He grinned at the shocked expression on her face then watched her closely as he slicked a finger over the hard little button hidden between her folds. She shuddered, her breasts rising dramatically as she pulled in a lungful of air.

“Don’t stop,” she begged. “Whatever you’re doing, don’t stop.”

He lowered his head and took a nipple into his mouth, his finger sliding over and over her, delving deeper, lower with each rotation until, finally, he was at her hot entrance and she was tilting her hips in wordless invitation.

He sucked hard on her nipple as he slid his finger inside her. Slick, hot muscle closed around him, so tight and wet he groaned.

“Take your jeans off. I want to see you. I want to touch you,” Zoe panted.

She drove her fingers into his hair and dragged his head up from her breasts so he was forced to look her in the eye.

“I want you to be my first, Liam. I want to sleep with you,” she said.

His hard-on throbbed at the thought of being inside her, taking what she was so generously, passionately, warmly offering.

He loved her. She was so beautiful. Never more so than right at this moment, with her eyes clouded with desire and her face flushed.

“I want to touch you,” she said again. His hand stilled between her legs as she slid her own hand down his body to where his cock was pressed against her thigh. He closed his eyes as she smoothed her hand along his length, her caress firm through his jeans.

“I don’t care about anything else. I just want you. I’ve always wanted you,” she said.

“I’ve always wanted you,” he said as her fingers found the stud on his jeans. She popped it free and pulled his zipper down. He held his breath as her hand worked its way inside his jeans.

She found him, her fingers encircling him, tentative at first but with more confidence as she felt how hard he was, how much he wanted her.

“How can it be so soft and so hard at the same time?” she asked.

“How can you be so hot and so wet?”

She laughed and smoothed her hand up and down his shaft. He began to move his finger again, slicking over and over her. She dropped her head back and lifted her hips.

“Please, Liam. Please,” she begged.

He didn’t know why he wasn’t tearing her jeans off, why he wasn’t inside her already. This was his every fantasy come true—beautiful, sleek, sweet Zoe in his bed, panting for him, her hands on him, pleading with him to take her. How many times had he lain here in the dark of night, his hand wrapped around his own hardness as he imagined her begging like this, imagined the taste of her, the feel of her?

Too many. Almost every night since he’d moved in with the Fords after his mom died. A whole year.

She made a disgruntled noise when he pulled his hand free from her jeans but she smiled when he popped her jeans open and his fingers found the tab on her zipper.

“Yes. Finally!” she said as he tugged it down.

She was wearing plain white panties with some kind of writing on them. It wasn’t until she was lifting her hips to help him slide them off that he realized what they said.

Friday’s Child Is Loving and Giving.

He stilled, the only sound his harsh breathing as he stared at the words, emblazoned across the plumpness of her mons, the darkness of her pubic hair showing faintly through the thin white cotton.

Loving and giving. That was exactly what Zoe was. She was also smart, brave, stubborn. She could sketch and draw like no one he’d ever known, and she never backed off from a challenge. Never wore skirts, either, or makeup. Knew how to change the starter motor in her father’s old Mini. How to throw a cricket ball and kick a football.

She had no idea how gorgeous she was. How many of the guys at school watched her when she walked past in her jeans and T-shirts with no bra. Her green eyes, the perfect oval of her face, the dimple in her chin. In a few years’ time, she was going to understand how much she was worth, how precious she was.

“Liam,” she said, wiggling her hips impatiently. “Hurry up!”

She was going to regret this moment. After all, who was he? Liam Masters, thick as two planks if his teachers were to be believed. Homeless, parentless. Alone, destined for nothing. Staying here with the Fords was the first lucky break he’d had in his life. He didn’t expect it to last, or to change anything, despite how hard Mrs. Ford was campaigning for him to repeat a year so he could get better marks and apply to university.

He knew who he was, what he was. He’d learned it young, at his father’s knee.

There was no way he was good enough for Zoe Ford. Certainly not good enough to be her first.

“What? What’s wrong?” Zoe propped herself up on both elbows to stare at him.

“I can’t do this.”

He grabbed the waistband of her jeans and pulled them up. She resisted, a frown on her face.

“What? What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

“We’re not going to do this, Zoe. You need to get dressed and go back to the house.”

She stared at him, her mouth open. He could see the hurt in her eyes as desire was replaced by confusion.

“Did I—Did I do something wrong?” she asked. “Tell me what to do, what to say, and I’ll do it, Liam.”

“You need to get dressed,” he said again.

He tugged the two sides of her jeans together and pulled up the zipper. She pushed his hands away from the stud when he went to close it.

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” she said.

There were tears in her eyes. She pushed herself backward on the bed and pulled her knees up to her chest. “Liam, please. Don’t do this.”

“This is a big mistake. I’m doing you a favor,” he said.

He tucked himself back into his jeans and zipped himself up. Then he stood at the end of the bed, looking down at her.

“You need to go before someone catches you in here,” he said.

She blinked away tears. “Is that what you’re worried about? Someone finding us? Because I would never tell, Liam. I love you. You know that. I’d never get you in trouble.”

“You’re fifteen, Zoe. Tom trusts me, your parents trust me. They took me in.”

She shook her head. “Bull. This isn’t about my parents or my brother. Tell me what’s really wrong. Is it because I’m a virgin? Or is it my boobs? I know they’re small but I didn’t think you’d mind. Mom said they’ll get bigger as I get older…”

Liam swore under his breath and raked a hand through his hair.

“It’s nothing to do with you, Zoe. It’s me, okay? You don’t want me to be your first.”

“I do. More than anything.”

She stared at him with her big trusting eyes, so earnest and open and honest.

“You have no idea who I really am.” He thought of the girls he’d slept with, the fights he’d had, the things he’d stolen, the lies he’d told. He thought of him and his mom escaping into the night with their lives crammed into a single black garbage bag thanks to his old man. “You “don’t want me.”

Zoe shook her head. “I do. You’re the only one I want.”

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood. Her arms were crossed over her chest as she moved to stand in front of him. She bared herself so that she could reach for his hands, pulling them toward her.

“I want you. See?” she said, pressing his hands against her breasts.

Her eyes, her face pleaded with him. He felt the warm softness of her beneath his hands. Wanted so much to haul her to him and take what she was offering.

He forced himself to keep his hands unresponsive, to push her away instead of drawing her closer. She gasped.

He stooped to grab her T-shirt.

“Get dressed,” he said.

She just stared at him, her arms once more crossed protectively.

“I love you, Liam,” she said. “Please don’t do this.”

“You’ll thank me one day,” he said.

He dropped the T-shirt onto the end of the bed and turned his back on her, walking to the window so he wouldn’t have to look at her a second longer. He would never forget how she looked, standing there with her eyes so full of pain and confusion.

The rush of movement and the sound of the door slamming signaled her exit. He closed his eyes.

So close. He’d come so close to taking something that wasn’t his. Something perfect.

He crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, his head in his hands. Images from the past few minutes flashed across his mind. Zoe’s breasts, damp from where he’d kissed her. Her eyes, heavy with need. The hitch in her breathing when he’d slid his hand between her legs.

He knew what he had to do. He pulled out the duffel bag from beneath his bed. It didn’t take him long to pack. Life had taught him to travel light. He hesitated a moment before grabbing the photograph he kept hidden in the biker magazines beside his bed. Tom and him and Zoe, laughing last summer as they attacked each other with water pistols. He slid it into his back pocket then headed for the door.

His motorbike was in the garage and he wheeled it carefully past Mr. Ford’s Mini and Mrs. Ford’s sensible Volvo wagon. He propped it on its stand at the end of the driveway in the circle of light from a streetlamp and settled in to wait for Tom to come home.

Liam was stiff and his ass was numb from sitting on the cold concrete curb before Tom turned the corner at two in the morning. Liam stood as his friend stopped in front of him, a smile on his face.

“Mate. What are you doing out here?” Tom was hazyeyed, a bit drunk. “Why’d you leave so early, you bastard?

Party was just getting started. Sally was mighty pissed with you, let me tell you.”

Then he registered Liam’s bike, the duffel bag strapped on the back. His smile faded.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m heading off. Time to move on,” Liam said.

Tom frowned. “What? What do you mean?”

Don’t want to overstay my welcome,” Liam said with a shrug.

“No way. You can’t go like this. Mom’ll freak out. Dad’ll have a cow. God knows what Zoe will do. You know she worships the ground you freakin’ walk on.”

Liam pulled the letter he’d written from his back pocket. It wasn’t much—a bare thanks, a thin explanation, plus all the cash he had on him to pay for his bills to date. It would have to do.

Tom stared at the envelope, refusing to take it.

“I can’t believe you’re serious. What happened? Have you heard from your dad? If he’s hassling you, we can go to the cops,” Tom said.

“I just have to go.”

Tom stared at him, his green eyes, so like Zoe’s, searching Liam’s face. Then he crossed to the bike and tugged the keys from the ignition, sliding them into his pocket.

“Hey!”

“Tell me what happened and I’ll give them back,” Tom said.

“Nothing happened.”

“Bull.”

“Give me the keys, Tom. All you need to know is that I’m doing the right thing.”

“Sneaking off in the middle of the night? Yeah, really noble.”

“Give me the keys.” Liam moved forward, but Tom backed away.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

Liam swore and lunged at his friend. Tom dodged to the side.

“Tom…” Liam warned.

He lunged again, and again Tom slipped away.

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

Liam feinted to the left then grabbed a handful of Tom’s shirt when he tried to veer right. They wrestled in silence, grabbing fistfuls of each other’s clothing, not wanting to hurt each other. After a few minutes they broke apart. They eyed each other, fighting for breath. The words were in Liam’s throat and out his mouth before he could think twice.

“It’s Zoe,” he said. “I can’t stay because of Zoe.”

Tom frowned. “Because she’s got a crush on you? I know she can be a pain, but it’s not that bad…”

Liam stared at him, letting the silence grow. Tom jerked his head in sudden realization.

“No way,” he said, shaking his head.

“Nothing happened.”

Tom took a step away, then stepped forward again, still shaking his head.

“You and my sister? Tell me this is a joke.”

Liam knew what Tom was thinking. He’d heard Liam talk about girls, knew he’d had more than his fair share over the past few years. Knew Liam never stayed long after he got what he wanted.

“Nothing happened. I sent her back to the house before things got out of hand.”

“Jesus! What the hell was she doing alone with you anyway? How long has this been going on for?”

Liam shook his head. “It hasn’t. I mean, I’ve always liked her. But I’ve never touched her before.”

Tom swore and threw his hands in the air. “You touched my sister?”

“I didn’t screw her, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Liam said.

Tom’s fist came out of nowhere, connecting with Liam’s jaw and sending a flash of white pain up the side of his face. He staggered, then shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears.

“You asshole. Dammit, you asshole,” Tom said. “She’s fifteen. Fifteen!”

Liam held his ground. “That’s why I’m going.”

Tom dug his hand into his pocket. Liam caught a flash of silver as his motorbike keys flew toward his head. He was too slow to react and they grazed his cheekbone before hitting the ground. He felt a trickle of warmth on his face as he bent to retrieve them.

He offered Tom the letter again, but his friend eyed him coldly. Liam crossed to the mailbox and slid the envelope inside. It would have to do.

“For what it’s worth, I love her,” he said as he reached for his helmet.

Tom turned his back and walked up the driveway. Liam watched until he disappeared from sight, then rocked his bike off its stand and wheeled it to the end of the street.

The bike roared to life, the motor throbbing between his thighs. He didn’t look back as he twisted the throttle and sped down the street.

He’d made the right decision. He knew he had.

1

Twelve Years Later

LIAM FINGERED the single button on his jacket as he approached the well-lit entrance of Hartman’s Art Gallery. A woman in her thirties waited in the foyer, tall and elegant. Her platinum-blond bob swung around her jaw as she turned to face him, a welcoming smile on her face.

“Liam. You came,” Jacinta Hartman said.

“Of course.”

Her smile faded as she registered his clothes.

“You’re not wearing the tie I bought you.”

“Nope.”

“Liam…”

He held out his arms to draw attention to the well-cut wool trousers, jacket and crisply tailored shirt he was wearing.

“Come on, cut me some slack here. Not an inch of denim or leather in sight,” he said.

“And you’re not wearing your beautiful new shoes, either,” she said, eyeing his favorite boots unhappily.

He slid an arm around her slim waist and pulled her close.

“I said you could try to civilize me. I didn’t say it would work,” he reminded her. He kissed her and she pulled back before he could smear her lipstick.

“Liam, people can see us,” she said.

Which made him laugh. Jacinta always made him laugh with all her prim little rules and guidelines. In public, that was. In private she was as dirty as the next woman—if the next woman had a penchant for hard, sweaty sex. They’d been friends for years now, lovers when the mood took them. When he’d built his new house near the St. Kilda shore six months ago, she’d volunteered to help him decorate it. The catch had been that she wanted to redecorate him—“civilize him,” as she put it—at the same time.

“I don’t know why you’re so resistant to the idea of stepping it up a notch,” Jacinta said. “If you had any idea how good you look in a suit, you wouldn’t think twice.”

“I’m a bike builder. I spend my days covered in grease,” he said.

“You’re a millionaire. You never have to get your hands dirty again if you don’t want to.”

“Babe, you have your world, I have mine. I’m not going to ask you to bend metal for me. And you’re not going to get me in a tie.”

She looked as though she was going to argue some more, then she shrugged. “Stubborn bastard. Come on, I’ll show you the pieces I’ve picked out for you,” she said, taking his hand and guiding him into the gallery itself.

A few heads turned as they walked the length of the space past asymmetrical sculptures and brightly hued canvases and jagged twists of metal. Five years ago Liam would have figured people were looking at him because he so clearly didn’t belong. His hair was too long, his walk had too much swagger to it, his hands were too rough and ready. Back then, he’d have stared every person down, maybe taken his attitude right up to a few of them to show them how much he didn’t care for their opinion of him. Now he ignored them because he knew he didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, ever. He had the big house, the big car and the big bank account to prove it.

Jacinta stopped in front of a smooth obelisk of shiny white stone.

“I thought this would be nice on the balcony in the west corner,” she said.

He eyed it for a long beat, not saying a word. Jacinta slanted a look at him.

“You don’t like it, do you?”

“No,” he said. “It looks like a big stone dildo. Call me crazy, but no man wants something that big casting a shadow over his life.”

She sighed. “For a man who doesn’t know much about art, you certainly have strong opinions.”

“I want to see some craftsmanship, that’s all. Any of the fabricators at my workshop could make this before lunch,” he said.

“Lovely. Maybe we should ask them to whip up a few for us, then,” Jacinta said dryly.

He shrugged, unapologetic. She narrowed her eyes in thought for a moment then nodded decisively.

“Follow me. We’ve got a smaller collection in one of the side spaces. I have a feeling Paulo Gregorio’s work might be more up your alley,” she said.

Liam followed her across the polished concrete floor, admiring the sway of her hips. He wondered if she was wearing garters and stockings like she had been the last time she stayed the night. He loved a woman in red lace—it was one weakness he was more than happy to admit to.

“Okay, this artist is definitely more traditional. I think you’ll find all the craftsmanship you could possibly want in his work,” Jacinta said as they stepped into a smaller room.

Eight large canvases hung on the four walls. They were all portraits, all women in various stages of undress. Jacinta pointed to the first painting, a six-foot-by-six-foot canvas of a woman lying on a chaise lounge, a filmy negligee falling off her shoulders and tangling in her legs.

“Lots of color. Strong technique. And a subject that I know is very close to your heart,” Jacinta said.

He smiled at her dry humor as he studied the painting, noting the warm look in the woman’s eyes, the delicate way the artist had captured the texture of her clothing and the blush on her skin.

“Nice work,” he said.

“Nice work? It’s not one of your motorbikes, Liam.”

He checked the price list in her hand.

“You’re right. A custom Masters Mechanics bike is worth three times as much.”

She rolled her eyes. “What about this next one? I was thinking it would look great in your bathroom, above that huge Roman tub.”

Liam dutifully shifted his attention from the lounging woman to the next painting. This canvas was bigger, eight-by-ten, he estimated, and the subject was completely naked, lying sprawled on her back on a forest-green quilt. Her arms were spread wide and one knee was bent, the leg dropping out to the side. He followed the line of her calves to her thighs and the mysterious shadows between them. The artist had only hinted at what a man would be able to see in real life, but it was enough. More than enough.

If he had this painting in his bathroom, he’d be taking a cold shower every freaking day.

“I don’t suppose the artist hands out phone numbers with each painting?” he asked, only half joking.

Jacinta made an impatient noise. “Does that mean you like it?”

He dragged his gaze from the plump tips of the woman’s breasts and shifted his attention to her face.

Then he forgot to breathe.

Took a step backward.

Made a noise in the back of his throat that may or may not have been a four-letter word.

Green eyes. A dimpled chin. Long dark hair.

A face he remembered in his dreams. The most bittersweet memory of his life.

Zoe.

“Damn.”

Jacinta touched his arm. “Liam. What’s wrong?”

His gaze swept the painting again, looking for proof that he was wrong. Again he saw those open thighs, her hips, her breasts. And Zoe’s face. Indisputably Zoe’s face.

He stepped forward.

Why would she do this? Put herself on display like this? Little Zoe, spread across the wall for any man to stare at.

“Liam! What are you doing?” Jacinta demanded as he gripped the sides of the painting.

“Who else has seen this? How long has it been on dis play?” he asked.

“Liam, put that back. My God, what is wrong with you?”

He lifted the painting off its hook and turned it around. Only when it was leaning against the wall, face in, did he relax.

“Wrap it up. I don’t want anyone else looking at it.”

Jacinta planted both hands on her hips and glared at him.

“Would you mind putting the painting back, please?”

He pulled his checkbook out. “How much is it? I’m taking it with me.”

Jacinta stared at him for a long moment.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

He waited for her to name the price.

“It’s fifteen thousand,” she finally said.

He wrote the check and tore it off. “I want to speak to this Paulo guy. Tonight.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but—”

“I know her,” he said bluntly. “Or at least I used to know her. I don’t know what this guy offered her to sit for this painting, but she doesn’t belong up here.”

“For God’s sake, Liam, you sound like an outraged parent. This is art, not pornography.”

“Can you get me this guy’s number or not?”

Jacinta studied him, frowning.

“I don’t want you calling one of my artists and harassing him. What do you want to know? Her contact details, I suppose?”

“For starters.”

“Give me five minutes.”

Jacinta disappeared toward the rear of the gallery where he knew she had her office. Once he was alone he ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes. He felt sick. Like someone had punched him in the guts.

This Paulo shithead must have offered her big money to pose for him. She must have been so desperate it seemed like a good deal. Damn, what the hell was Tom doing, letting his little sister get into this kind of trouble?

The tap of heels heralded Jacinta’s return. She handed over a scrap of paper.

“No home number, just her workplace. She’s very private, according to Paulo.”

He studied the address and phone number. The Blue Rose, on the western side of the city in Footscray. Not exactly the most up-and-coming area. He wondered what kind of business it was.

“Can you get someone to wrap the painting?” he asked.

“I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking if you would mind leaving it until the show is finished so I don’t have a dirty great gap in my display?” Jacinta countered.

“No.”

She sighed. “I didn’t think so.”

She headed off again, but stopped in the doorway.

“By the way, I asked what he paid her to sit for him.”

“And?”

“It was a freebie. No fee.”

He shook his head. He refused to believe it.

“No way.”

Jacinta simply raised her eyebrows before swiveling on her heel and continuing out the door.

Forty minutes later he pulled up in front of the address he’d been given. He leaned forward over the steering wheel to check the number above the shop door was correct.

The Blue Rose was a tattoo parlor.

It was the last thing he’d expected. He stared at the dingy front window for a long time before he threw his black SUV into gear and drove home. All the way, he thought about the Fords, felt again the mix of guilt and regret and gratitude that he always experienced when he remembered their kindness to him. Wondered where he would have wound up if it hadn’t been for them taking him in. In a state home, most probably. A problem teen no one wanted to take on.

But the Fords had. They’d supported him through his mom’s brief but brutal illness, then they’d asked him to live with them, offering him their backyard studio. They’d even renovated it for him—new paint, new carpet, insulation so he wouldn’t stew in his own juices in summer.

He and Tom had been best mates, a friendship that hadn’t come easily to Liam. He and his mom had been on the road, moving around for so long that he’d stopped bothering to make friends. He’d seen so much ugliness that it was hard for him to invest in the same things that other kids his age were into—music, cars, chicks. But Tom had made it easy, as had his family. And Zoe…

He could still remember the first time he’d seen her. Tom had brought Liam home after school, and they’d been standing at the open fridge door, drinking soda straight from the bottle when she came into the room. She’d been wearing a pair of cutoff denim shorts and a tank top, her dark, straight hair in a ponytail. Her legs were long and slim, but she seemed uncertain of them, like a baby giraffe trying to walk for the first time. The buds of her breasts pressed against her top, ripe and full of potential. And those eyes…those incredible green eyes.

He’d taken one look at her and choked on the mouthful of soda he’d been swallowing.

She was special. He’d known it the moment he saw her. Every second he spent with her afterward only confirmed it. Over the past twelve years, he’d wondered how she was, what she’d become. She’d be twenty-seven now. He’d always assumed she’d be married, maybe with kids of her own.

He dumped the painting in his empty dining room when he got home. He leaned it against the wall and stared at Zoe’s exposed body, the image blurred by bubble wrap.

This was not something he’d ever imagined for her.

He turned away. He wanted to look at her again, to tear off the bubble wrap and feast on her. Which was exactly why he wasn’t going to. He closed his eyes and forced himself to remember her laugh, the trust in her eyes when she used to look at him, the utter honesty and vulnerability in her face and body when she’d told him she loved him.

Zoe Ford deserved better than this painting and that tattoo shop. First thing tomorrow he was going to seek her out and do whatever it took to put things right in her world.

“HEY, HOW ARE WE this beautiful morning?” Zoe asked as she pushed through the back door into the Blue Rose’s workroom.

“Zoe! Man, I was starting to sweat about you,” Jake Lewis said, throwing her a frustrated look.

She made a big show of checking her watch.

“I’m right on time for my ten-thirty appointment, Jake,” she told her boss.

“Would it kill you to get here twenty minutes earlier?”

“You know I don’t need the prep time. It’s all up here, baby,” she said, tapping a forefinger against her temple.

She shrugged out of her denim jacket and threw it on a chair. Her cowboy boots thumped solidly on the concrete floor as she crossed to her workbench and began setting up for her client.

“Anyone ever told you you’re a smart-ass, Ford?”

“Oh, yeah. First time today, though, so you get a prize.” She flipped her middle finger at him. As she’d hoped, he laughed.

She smoothed her hands down her lace-up jeans as she considered her workbench. Everything looked good—disposable ink cups, new needles ready to go.

“You still performing tonight?” Jake asked as she crossed to the autoclave to collect her sterilized gun.

“Nine o’clock. You going to be there? I’ll put your name on the door.”

“Don’t know if my blood pressure can take it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Pussy.”

Jake moved to the front of the shop and she tugged off the long-sleeved T-shirt she was wearing over a snug black tank. She always got warm when she worked, and she wasn’t about to stop in the middle of inking someone’s back to shrug off her clothes.

She heard the front bell sound and checked the clock. Her client was on time. She raised an eyebrow; she’d lost the bet she’d made with herself. This client had been so nervous when they discussed his appointment that she’d been sure he’d be a no-show, or as they called them, a B-back—the kind of customer who made some excuse to slip out just before the needle touched his skin, promising he’d “be back” but in reality never to be seen again.

She heard the low rumble of a man’s voice as she bagged her spray bottles to prevent cross-contamination.

“Sure, whatever, go through. She’s in the back,” she heard Jake say.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the floor as her customer approached. For some reason her stomach tightened and a shiver of something raced up her spine. Excitement? Fear? Premonition?

She had her back to the door when a deep male voice spoke.

“Zoe?”

All the little hairs stood up on the back of her neck. Slowly she turned around to confirm what her ears were telling her.

Liam. Standing there larger than life, bigger and taller than any of her memories of him. Her chest felt as though someone was sitting on it as she took in the messy dark hair brushing the collar of his leather jacket, the deep brown of his eyes, the crooked line of his nose. His jaw was still strong and stubborn-looking, his shoulders still wide. Some things had changed. His chest was deeper and broader than when he’d been seventeen, making his hips seem narrower, and his thighs were more muscled and bulky. The boy had become a man. A big, powerful man.

Of all the tattoo parlors in Melbourne, she couldn’t believe he had walked into hers. What were the odds?

Hard on the heels of shock at seeing him came a searing wash of anger. Twelve years of resentment and bitterness welled up inside her. The way he’d thrown what she offered him in her face. The way he’d left without a word. And what had happened afterward when she was too wild with grief at losing him to care about anything, especially herself.

“Masters,” she said, crossing her arms over her breasts. She was proud of how cool and unsurprised her voice sounded. “This is a surprise. Long time no see.”

He stared at her and she could see the shock and disbelief in his eyes as he surveyed her from head to toe, taking in her skintight jeans and tank, her breasts spilling over her neckline, the dark kohl on her eyes, the deep red on her lips.

“Jesus, Zoe,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He was surprised by the grown-up her—that much was obvious.

“What does it look like? I work here. If you’re after some ink, I’ve got an appointment right now. You’ll have to come back later.”

His gaze took in her workbench, the scuffed concrete floor, the curling corners on the many sheets of tattoo flash art stuck to the walls.

“Does Tom know about all this?” he asked.

He sounded grim. Disapproving.

“Excuse me?”

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture she remembered from all those years ago.

“You don’t belong here,” he said.

She straightened, planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t I? What would you know, Liam? What the hell would you know about me?”

His gaze dropped to her breasts, then just as quickly came back to her face.

“I bought a painting last night. By Paulo Gregorio.”

She stared at him for a long beat. Then she laughed. He hadn’t just walked in off the street and coincidentally found her. He’d come looking for her.

“I get it. You bought Paulo’s painting and you decided to look me up. What’s wrong, Liam? Did you suddenly realize what you missed out on all those years ago?”

He frowned. “I wanted to find out what had gone wrong.”

Her chin came up and her eyes narrowed. “Wrong?”

“That you needed to do something like that.”

She shook her head, truly staggered by his arrogance.

“Wow. Haven’t you become the morals campaigner. Let me save you the bother of worrying about me. I’m fine. In fact, I’m better than fine. I’m exactly where I want to be.”

“I don’t believe that.”

She laughed again, a sound totally without humor. “I don’t give a damn what you believe or don’t believe. Who the hell do you think you are, walking into my life and telling me I’m wrong and looking at me as though I just offered you a blow job for a tenner?”

“I was worried about you,” he said.

She swore and stared at the ceiling as she struggled to keep a grip on her temper. Her lips curled into a sneer when she looked at him again.

“Twelve years too late, baby,” she said. “Now, how about you get the hell out of my space?”

He stared at her.

“Go! I don’t want to see you or speak to you,” she said. To her great shame, hot tears burned at the back of her eyes. She held them there by sheer dint of will as they eyeballed each other.

“Fine. But this isn’t over,” he said.

She swore again, telling him exactly what she thought of him and where he could go, with bells on.

He gave her one last, long look before turning on his heel and exiting. She reached for the countertop behind her and grasped the edge to stop her rubbery knees from collapsing. Then a more urgent need gripped her. One hand pressed to her mouth, she just made it to the restroom before she lost her breakfast to the toilet bowl.

How she hated him. How she hated herself for still feeling anything for him after all these years.

She ducked her head over the sink and rinsed her mouth out. Her eyes were guarded as she surveyed herself in the chipped mirror above the sink.

For the first time in a long time, she felt a stab of the phantom pain that had haunted her for so long after the operation. She pressed a hand to her belly.

A knock sounded on the bathroom door.

“You in here, Zoe? Your tenderfoot’s arrived for his ten-thirty appointment,” Jake called.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” she said.

She rinsed her mouth again, then pressed her cool, wet hands against her cheeks.

Screw Liam Masters. She didn’t give a damn about him or what he thought of her. She exited the bathroom and put on her brightest, sassiest smile for the scared teenager standing uncertainly in the doorway of her workroom.

“Rodney. Great to see you. Let’s turn you into a piece of walking, talking art, baby,” she said.

LIAM THOUGHT ABOUT ZOE all day at work. He thought about the look in her eyes when she’d first seen him and recognized him. He thought about her attitude, all sharp edges and defenses. He thought about the length of her legs and the fullness of her breasts, every detail of both on display thanks to her painted-on clothes. He thought about the tattoo on her neck, a striking overblown rose in shades of black and gray.

Zoe. His Zoe, all grown up. And nothing like he’d ever imagined her. Certainly not happily married with kids.

He couldn’t reconcile the woman he’d met today with the girl he’d known twelve years ago. It didn’t seem possible that the pure, innocent, generous spirit that had been Zoe could grow up into a woman so hard and edgy.

He couldn’t afford to be this distracted right now. The workshop was operating at full capacity, and as always, there were fires to put out. Delays on the parts they’d ordered for a custom chopper that had a strict delivery date. Problems with the fit of the double-overhead engine one client had requested.

He discussed options and solutions with his chief designer and lead fabricator, Vinnie. He wrangled suppliers. He put a rocket up one of the assembly teams to ensure they kept to schedule. At a quarter to seven, he shrugged into his leather jacket and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Vinnie asked in surprise. It was a rare day when Liam wasn’t the last one to leave the workshop.

“There’s something I have to do.”

“I need to talk to you about this biker build-off comp. You still want to enter?”

Vinnie sounded doubtful. Liam gave him a cuff on the shoulder.

“I know it’ll be a pain in the ass, but we have to keep pushing the PR.”

Vinnie’s disgust showed on his face. “What a load of BS. Why can’t we just make great bikes like we always have? That’s how we got to where we are today.”

“Don’t you listen to the marketing eggheads? We’re building a brand now, my friend,” Liam said on his way out the door. “I’ll sort out our entry first thing tomorrow. Make sure you reserve time in the production schedule so we can give it our best.”

He palmed his car keys as he crossed the parking lot. Masters Mechanics had taken on a life of its own over the past three years. Through word of mouth they’d doubled, then tripled in size. Turnover was in the millions. He had more than thirty staff working for him, including a marketing manager. The days of simply shutting himself in the workshop and bending metal until it looked good to him were over. He had responsibilities, commitments. And—even though it had always felt like a dirty word, given his background—ambitions. Not world domination, but definitely he wanted Masters Mechanics to be the go-to shop for custom motorbikes across Australia and New Zealand. Definitely.

The V8 engine of his vintage Mustang burbled to life as he turned the key in the ignition. He took the tollway across town to save time and was pulling up in front of the Blue Rose at a quarter to eight. The lights shone inside and he could see Zoe talking to a couple of customers at the front counter. Good. She hadn’t gone home. He’d taken note of the parlor’s opening hours when she’d kicked him out and taken a punt that she’d be working till close at eight. If she hadn’t been here, he would have simply come back another time.

He watched her for a moment, the way she propped her hip against the counter, the way she tilted her head back and shook it to draw her hair away from her face. He’d wait until the customers left then go in to talk to her again. Try to keep things calmer this time, not get her back up. He winced every time he remembered asking her what had gone wrong. Zoe had always been proud. No surprise that she’d cut up at him.

But he needed to let her know that if she needed help, he was there to give it. It was the least he owed her and her family.

He smiled humorlessly. Yeah, he was a real freaking saint. Pity he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about that painting, about those shadows between her thighs, about the wealth of breast spilling over the top of her tank top even now as she leaned an elbow on the counter and sketched a design on a piece of paper. Her two potential clients were no doubt copping a decent eyeful. Probably thought all their Christmases had come at once. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

It was nearly eight when the two men exited the parlor. He watched them break into laughter the moment they were outside, slapping each other on the back. One of them looked back over his shoulder at Zoe, and Liam knew without a doubt that they were talking about her, about what they’d like to do to her if they were lucky enough to get her naked.

The car door was open before he could think twice. He crossed the road, hands curled into fists. At close quarters, he could see they were young, barely old enough to drive. He stopped in his tracks and let them walk away, still laughing. He forced his hands to relax.

He’d almost lost it there for a minute. What the hell was wrong with him?

He took a deep, rib-expanding breath, then let it out slowly. He prided himself on the fact that it had been many, many years since he’d thrown a punch in anger. For a bunch of other reasons, sure, but never because impulse urged him to. It was one of the abiding tenets of his life—never lose control. That, and his determination to remain single.

He turned his focus back to the tattoo parlor and strode to the front door. He frowned when the handle refused to give beneath his hand. Shit. She’d shut up for the night while he was wasting time on the sidewalk. His guess was confirmed as the lights were switched off.

Fine. He’d come back tomorrow. He made his way back to his car and was about to pull away from the curb when a seen-better-days Subaru WRX drove past, Zoe behind the wheel.

He fell in behind her automatically. He already knew she had an unlisted telephone number and address. At least if he followed her home, he’d know where she lived.

2

LIAM TRAILED ZOE through the night-dark city for twenty minutes until they were driving through the graffiti-covered streets of North Melbourne. He almost gave himself away by braking sharply when she pulled over to the curb without indicating. He pulled over when he found a parking spot half a block up. He twisted in his seat to watch as she exited her car.

She was carrying a gym bag and walking with purpose, her long legs eating up the sidewalk as she approached the front door to a nightclub.

Not going home, then. He watched the entrance for five minutes, but she didn’t come out. He shrugged and exited his car. He’d talk to her in there. The venue didn’t matter, what he had to say—and offer—did.

He locked the Mustang and walked toward the club. A big guy in a tight black T-shirt blocked the entrance, arms crossed over his chest. Liam glanced at the club name—Thrashed—before eyeing the bouncer in front of him. The guy eyed him back for a long beat before moving aside. Liam passed through into a small foyer. Loud music leaked out from the club proper and he paid a ten-dollar cover charge to the guy behind the counter.

He pushed through double swing doors to find himself in a dimly lit space dotted with tables and chairs, one wall all bar, the opposite wall a stage. It was early and there were only a handful of people at the tables. Zoe wasn’t one of them.

He scanned the bar, but she wasn’t there, either. Where the hell was she? He waited ten minutes to see if she’d gone to the bathroom, then walked outside to make sure her car was still in the street. It was.

He returned to the club and bought a beer. Over the next twenty minutes, the club slowly filled. And still Zoe hadn’t appeared. The loud music was getting on his nerves by then and he decided to call it quits and look Zoe up again tomorrow. After all, she’d survived twelve years without him. She’d survive one more night.

He was shouldering his way to the exit when the lights flashed and the audience began to clap and whistle. The room dimmed and the stage lights came up as a band sauntered onto the stage: a drummer with long stringy hair and too many piercings; a bass guitarist with big biceps and the crookedest nose Liam had ever seen; and a lead guitarist in tight leather with a bare chest. His guitar slung across his shoulder, the lead guitarist leaned in toward the mike stand.

“Yo! We’re Sugar Cane and you know what you got to do, people. Tell Vixen how much you want her!” he hollered.

The crowd went nuts. Screaming, whistling, stomping their feet. Liam turned toward the exit, glad to be leaving before his eardrums started bleeding.

“Relax, boys and girls. Vixen is more than ready to come out and play,” a sultry female voice said.

Liam turned to the stage, instinct telling him he wasn’t going to like what he was about to see. The crowd took it up a notch, screaming and stomping as a woman strutted onto the stage in black, four-inch stilettos. She wore black fishnet stockings with red satin garters and a pair of tiny black patent leather hot pants. A strip of belly and most of her breasts were bared by a tight black leather vest. Her face was painted white like a geisha and her eyes burned out at the audience from a band of black makeup that striped the upper part of her face like a mask. Her lips jumped out in brilliant red, a match for the single vibrant streak running through her rock-and-roll hair.

He stood stock-still, staring at Zoe as she slowly rotated her hips in a suggestive circle.

“Let’s hit it, lovers!” she howled into the mike, and loud, pumping thrash blew out at him from the speaker stack.

Zoe started to sing, her voice strong and sultry as she strutted across the small stage. She pumped her arm in the air, thrust her hips. She slid a hand over her crotch and threw her head back in feigned ecstasy as she sang about sex and desire and taking what she wanted when she wanted it.

He stood frozen at the exit for almost the entire first song. Finally he shouldered his way back through the crowd to take up a position against the bar, his arms folded across his chest as he watched Zoe perform.

He’d never seen anything like her. Without a doubt, every heterosexual man in the place was hard. Probably half the gay ones, too. She was every man’s darkest fantasy: pure, unbridled sex, strutting, shaking it, daring every man in the audience to want her, to try to satisfy her.

Halfway through the second song, she tugged at the studs on her vest and pulled it open to reveal a black lace bra and a second rose tattoo across her hip and half her belly. The crowd howled its approval. She slid a hand from one breast to the other then down her stomach, all the while singing about liking it hard and fast. She turned her back as she threw the vest to one side. He stared as the rest of her tattoo was revealed.

Etched into her skin in shades of black and gray, the tattoo curved around her hip to climb her spine, a thorny rambling rose that promised as much pleasure as it did pain. It disappeared beneath the tangle of her hair only to reappear again as it twined its way around her throat.

Movement near the front of the stage drew his attention. A bare-chested, burly skinhead was hauling himself over the lip of the stage. Liam started pushing his way through the crowd, seeing the inevitable in his mind’s eye—some drunken idiot pawing at Zoe, security rushing in, fists being thrown, broken faces and bones. He’d barely taken three steps before Zoe walked straight up to the interloper and placed the spike of her heel dead center of his chest. She didn’t drop a note as she pushed him off the stage.

Liam stopped, staring at her for a long moment.

He had no idea who she was, what had made her into the woman onstage whipping four-hundred-odd people into a sweaty, horny frenzy.

Slowly he returned to his station at the bar.

It was going to be a long night.

SWEAT TRICKLED DOWN Zoe’s spine as she worked the stage. For the first time all day, she felt like herself. Seeing Liam Masters again after so long had thrown her, dredged up some of the bad, old stuff from the past. But she’d burned it off by the time she sang the chorus to “Come and Get Me,” and by the time she was on her knees belting out “Release Me,” she felt invincible.

Mikey hammered out the last few chords of the song as she pounded her fists into the stage, thrashing her hair around. She was grinning like a madwoman when she stood and made her way to the drum riser to grab the bottle of water she’d dumped there, the thunder of applause vibrating through the soles of her stilettos.

“You are on fire tonight, babe,” Kane, the drummer, said as she dropped her head back and sucked down water.

“I feel good,” she said. “What’s next?”

“‘Make It Hurt,’” Kane said, checking the play list taped to the floor beside his kit.

Zoe lifted the hair off the back of her neck.

“Okay, let’s go.”

She strode to the front of the stage to grab the mike. Faces screamed up at her out of the audience. She loved these gigs. Becoming Vixen for the night was about the most fun she could have without being naked or partaking of prohibited substances. The opening riff of “Make It Hurt” roared out of the speakers. She planted her feet wide and pushed her hips forward as she ground out the lyrics. She stared out into the darkness of the club. All she could see was a sea of black, but occasionally individual faces were picked out by the roaming spot. Dancing women dressed like herself, in as little as possible. Built men shaking their fists in the air. Bright-pink hair, neon blue.

Her stomach flipped when the spotlight roamed across the bar and she caught a flash of a tall man standing there, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze drilling into her. Just a flash, but her body told her who it was.

Liam, here.

Watching her.

Her first reaction was anger that he’d invaded yet more of her territory. Then she remembered the way he’d eyed her this morning, as though he couldn’t quite believe his eyes, and her sense of humor came to the rescue. If he hadn’t approved of the tattoo parlor and her tight jeans, she could only imagine what he was thinking right now.

The thought was so delicious she had trouble not laughing into the mike.

Knowing he was watching added new spice to every move she made, every word she sang. When she slid a hand from breast to breast and arched her back, she made sure he got an uninterrupted full-frontal view. When she offered her backside to the audience and slowly swiveled her hips, she imagined him watching, grinding his teeth over how wrong it all was.

She felt high, all powerful, dizzy with the danger of it. She could feel him brooding out in the audience, could sense his heavy disapproval beating at her from across the room. And she didn’t care. She so didn’t care.

By the time she belted out the last song, she was buzzing with adrenaline. She took her bow with the rest of the band, but her eyes sought Liam in the darkness. She could just make out his silhouette and she threw him a cocky, knowing smile before turning on her heel and striding offstage, working her hips and ass for all they were worth.

Take that, asshole.

“Man, what a gig! Best night in ages!” Derek, Sugar Cane’s bass player, said as they made their way down the stairs to the change rooms.

“Zoe, baby, you rocked hard tonight,” her lead guitarist, Mikey, said. “I thought we were gonna have to beat the audience off with a stick.”

“You guys were great,” Zoe told them. “I had a good time.”

Kane grabbed a six-pack of beer from the fridge in the band room and offered them around. Zoe shook her head, reaching instead for the bottle of bourbon she’d opened before the show.

“We heard anything more about those gigs up in Sydney?” she asked as she took a pull straight from the bottle.

“Nah. I’ll get onto the promoter tomorrow, chase him down. You know what those guys are like,” Derek said.

The guys collapsed onto the saggy, stained couch in the corner. Zoe propped her butt on a table and lifted her hair off the back of her neck.

“Man, I am steaming,” she said. She could feel sweat rolling down between her breasts.

“You said it, baby.” Mikey’s gaze was fixed on her legs.

No prizes for guessing what he wanted. But Zoe wasn’t in the mood for Mikey tonight. He got way too possessive after sex and it messed with the band dynamic too much. She wasn’t any man’s property.

“I’m going to go clean up,” she said.

She hooked the neck of the bourbon bottle between two fingers and made her way down the cinder-block corridor to the pokey change room. Inside, her work clothes were draped over the back of a chair, and her makeup kit was folded open on the counter in front of the mirror. She took another pull from the bottle and eyed herself in the mirror. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she again imagined Liam Masters’s reaction to Vixen’s performance.

Hilarious. Way, way too funny.

Then she heard the scuff of footsteps and turned her head to see him filling the doorway—tall and dark and intense.

Her smile widened into a grin and she raised the bourbon bottle in salute to him.

“How’d you like the show?” She held up a finger before he had a chance to speak. “No, no, let me guess. You thought it was all wrong.”

He didn’t say a word, just walked into the room and pushed the door shut behind him.

Suddenly the small space seemed even smaller. Zoe took another mouthful of bourbon.

“We need to talk,” Liam said.

“Do we?”

“I want to help you out. If you need money, a fresh start. Whatever. I’ll get you whatever you need,” he said.

She slowly put down the bottle. He was offering her charity. Like she was some down-and-out junkie or streetwalker.

“Gee, thanks, Lord Liam. How good of you to come down amongst the peasants and offer your bounty. I feel so privileged, I hardly know what to say.”

His gaze swept her from head to toe.

“Do your parents know you do this kind of thing? Your brother?”

She was a little sick of the judgment in his tone.

“This kind of thing? What exactly are you referring to, Liam? My singing? My career?”

“I’m talking about putting yourself on display for anyone to look at,” he said. “Letting every man and his dog stare at you and imagine what it would be like to screw you stupid.”

She shrugged, knowing somehow that it was the one reaction that would really piss him off.

“Men can look and imagine all they want. I’m the one who decides when and what they can touch.”

She raised her chin, daring him to say more. The silence stretched between them for what felt like a long time.

“What happened to you, Zoe?” he finally asked, his voice low.

She blinked, caught off guard by the pain in his face, the sincerity in his tone.

“You left and I grew up,” she said, turning her back on him. She didn’t trust herself to look him in the eye.

She could feel him watching her as she stowed her cosmetics in her kit.

“Let me help you. For old times’ sake.”

She closed her eyes, despising herself for the way he could still make her feel. Tears threatened for the second time that day and the emptiness inside her yawned wide.

God, she had to get him out of her change room and out of her life.

It had taken her years to find a place and a persona that made it all bearable, doable, survivable. She would not let him strip her of her armor.

She let her eyelids drop over her eyes as she turned to face him, at the same time hooking one thumb into the waistband of her hot pants.

“I don’t need any help from you, Liam,” she said. “The only thing I need from any man is the one thing I don’t have myself. If you get my drift.”

She watched as her meaning dawned on him and his expression grew even grimmer.

If that didn’t get rid of her self-appointed Sir Galahad, she didn’t know what would. After all, it had worked a treat twelve years ago.

“Don’t play games,” he said. “There must be something you need.”

“Definitely,” she said. “Especially after performing. It always makes me hot.”

She fanned a hand in front of her face. At the same time, she used the thumb in her waistband to pop the stud on her hot pants. The small sound brought Liam’s gaze to her waist.

“Not interested?” she asked, finding the tab of her zipper with her fingertips.

She had a sudden flash of how it had been all those years ago, the way he’d slid his hand under the waistband of her jeans at first rather than undo her fly, how she’d had to beg him to touch her properly.

The memory urged her on as she slid her zipper down.

“Don’t.” His voice sounded too loud in the small space.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

Good. She wanted him to sweat. She wanted him gone. And she was enjoying being the one with the power for a change. Once, she’d begged him to love her and he’d pushed her out the door, then abandoned her without a word. Tonight, she was the one in charge.

She snagged her thumbs into the belt loops of her hot pants and pushed down. She had to wriggle her hips a little to get the leather over them.

“Tight,” she said, wrinkling her nose. She pushed the hot pants down her legs and stepped out of them, standing in front of him wearing only her black lace thong and bra and her red garters and stockings.

“So what’s it going to be, Liam? Are you going to give me what I need, or are you going to make me take care of things myself?”

She touched the tip of her middle finger to her tongue then slid her finger down her chest until she found her left nipple through the lace of her bra. She brushed it lightly, then caught it between thumb and forefinger and squeezed. Heat shot down her belly to her thighs and her nipple hardened into a tight, needy peak.

She could hear him breathing.

“I just want to make things right for you,” he said.

“And I told you how you could do that.”

She’d meant to drive him away, but the way he was watching her so intently was having its own effect on her. Suddenly it wasn’t a game anymore.

She’d always imagined what it would be like to be with him. She’d held him in her hands, stroked him, found the single bead of desire that had glistened on the head of his penis. She’d had his fingers between her legs, inside her. She’d been so desperate for him that she’d begged him to take her virginity. But he’d pushed her away and left her wanting.

Not this time. Not if she had any say in the matter. She took a step backward until she felt the cool ridge of the counter against the backs of her thighs. She propped her butt against it and lifted her leg up onto the seat of the chair beside it.

She held his eye all the while, watching him watching her.

He wanted her. The tension in his body would have betrayed him even if there hadn’t been a bigger, longer giveaway bulging the front of his well-worn jeans.

“What’s wrong, Liam? I’m not Tom’s innocent little sister anymore. No parents are going to come barging in. It’s just you and me. No excuses, nothing.”

She kept her left hand on her breast and slid her right down her belly until she felt the lace of her thong beneath her fingers. She slid her fingers beneath the elastic and between her thighs.

Between taunting him so publicly onstage and this far more private, provocative session, she was aching for fulfillment.

She closed her eyes and sucked in a breath as she circled her finger.

“Feels so good, Liam. Want to try?”

LIAM SWORE. He was so hard it hurt and he was about out of reasons for keeping his hands off her. She was touching herself, her hips circling as she pleasured herself right in front of him. He couldn’t remember ever being so confronted, turned-on and conflicted all at the same time.

But this was Zoe. Zoe of the big trusting eyes and the silken, untouched skin and the breathless, utterly guileless sexuality. He couldn’t screw her in the back room of some shitty club.

“Better hurry up, Liam, or the show will be over.” She pushed down the cup of her bra and exposed one full, creamy breast.

All night he’d watched her, wondering, remembering. He wasn’t made of stone, and he wasn’t a saint.

He crossed the space between them in two strides. Her eyes widened as he grabbed her shoulders.

Then he was kissing her, forcing her head back as he thrust his tongue into her mouth. Her hands found his shoulders as his whole body crashed into hers, his chest meeting her breasts, his hips pressing into her widespread thighs.

He was so hungry for her he didn’t know where to start. He shoved her bra straps off her shoulders and pushed the cups down to bare both her breasts. She sucked in a shuddering breath as he slid his hands over her. He kissed her neck, tasting the salt of sweat and the tang of her perfume. He stuck his tongue in her ear and pinched her nipples firmly, making her squirm against him.

She was panting, her eyes closed, her hands clutching his backside as she dragged him closer. He rubbed himself against her as he slid a hand down her belly. His fingers found her through the thin lace of her thong, gliding into damp heat. He pushed the lace to one side and felt the smooth slide of his fingers on slick, hairless skin.

Zoe waxed.

Of course she did.

She felt swollen and juicy against his fingers, so slippery and hot he couldn’t wait another second. She was ahead of him, her hands dragging at the stud on his jeans, pulling his fly down. He groaned low in the back of his throat as she stroked a knowing hand up and down his shaft. He pressed forward, wanting inside her. His whole body tensed as the sensitive head of his erection encountered her slick heat.

“Wait,” she said, her voice a low husk.

He heard the crinkle of foil, then she was sliding protection onto him with expert hands. No sooner had she smoothed the latex to the base of his shaft than he was thrusting forward. Tight heat engulfed him. She let out a surprised moan as he gave her his all. Then he lost all sense of place and time as he pounded into her.

Her legs came up to lock around his waist. Her head dropped back on her neck. Her body shuddered with the impact of each stroke and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth to stifle a cry. He leaned forward and pulled a nipple into his mouth, stroking her with his tongue even as he stroked her with his cock. He bit her, savoring the jerk of her hips and the tight throb of her inner muscles around him.

Again and again he drove into her until he had to slide his hands onto her butt so he could go deeper, harder. Her back arched and her fingernails dug into his backside. Her mouth fell open as she shuddered around him, a look of pleasurable pain contorting her face as she came and came. Then his own orgasm hit him like a fist, driving the air from his lungs as he ground himself into her. For long seconds he shuddered out his release, every muscle hard as steel.

Then he was still inside her but the urgency was gone. He could feel her breath against his neck, her hands gripping his butt. A trickle of sweat ran down his side. He registered the distant, muffled sound of music from the club.

His heart was thundering in his chest. He took a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of control.

Because he’d just lost it, big-time.

Zoe’s body began to tremble against his and he drew back so he could look into her face. She was laughing silently, shaking her head from side to side.

“I guess I should thank you,” she said. “You said I would, one day. It might just have been worth waiting twelve years, after all.”

He slid free from her and turned away to take care of the condom, wrapping it and throwing it in the waste bin. The small piece of business gave him an excuse not to look at her. There was something so desolate in her eyes, so empty and sad that it made him want to punch something.

He slid his zipper closed and buttoned his jeans. Zoe pulled her bra back up, then started to unclip her stockings from her red garters.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said.

“Neither did I, believe it or not. But it turned out to be a pretty good idea, don’t you think?”

She rolled her stockings down her legs and toed off her stilettos.

He looked away when she slid her thong down, forcing his gaze from the narrow strip of hair between her thighs. She was bare between them, he knew now. Smooth and so damned hot she’d blown his mind.

She stepped into a clean pair of panties then reached for her jeans.

“Can we go somewhere? To talk?” he asked as she dragged them on and tightened the leather laces that held them closed.

“I told you, I don’t want or need your help, Liam. You just gave me all I’ll ever want from you.”

Her gaze was steady as she pulled on her tank top.

She meant it. Which left him with nowhere to go, nothing to offer.

“How long have you been singing?” he asked. Mostly because he figured it was a neutral question and he needed to buy time to get his head together.

“Five years now. Three years as Vixen. She makes it a lot more fun.”

She moved to stand in front of the mirror, reaching for a tub of face cream. Her gaze found his in the mirror.

“What about you, Mr. Do-Gooder. What do you do for a crust?”

“I build custom motorbikes. Mostly choppers.”

She pulled her hair into a ponytail and smoothed cream over her face, closing her eyes as she cleansed her eye makeup.

“Figures. You were always fiddling in the garage, tinkering with something or other.”

She wiped her face with a tissue. Pink skin replaced black and white. When she opened her eyes again he found himself looking at the old Zoe, the girl he’d known so long ago. No heavy kohl, no mask of makeup—just naturally long lashes and clear green eyes and pale skin.

She reached for a mascara tube and his hand shot out.

“No.”

“She frowned. “Sorry?”

“You look better without it.”

She shook him off and leaned forward to stroke on fresh mascara.

“I think you’d better go. Thanks for looking me up. It was…interesting,” she said, her eyes never leaving her own reflection.

He stared at her in the mirror, and she finally looked at him, cocking an eyebrow.

“What? You want more? Okay, thanks for the sex. You rocked my world more than anyone has in a long time. Happy?”

Not by a long shot, but he was beginning to realize that there was no way he was going to get through her defenses tonight. She’d bite her tongue off before she asked for help.

Without another word he turned for the door. He heard her close it behind him as he walked down the corridor. He walked out into rain and an overwhelming sense of guilt.

He’d stood against the bar tonight watching the men around him wanting her, and he’d wanted to hurt every single one of them. Then he’d gone backstage and hammered himself into her as though she really was nothing more than a hot body.

He spat in the gutter but it didn’t take away the bad taste in his mouth.

He’d lost control. She’d gone out of her way to provoke him, sure, but it was no excuse. He revved the Mustang hard and left rubber on the road as he pulled into the street. He’d wanted to help her, and instead he’d let his cock do the thinking.

It wasn’t going to happen again.

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