SUGAR, Book #1 in the FATE Series by Jenna Jameson & Hope Tarr

Prologue  

Los Angeles, California, Present Day  

"Give me some Sugar."  

"Sugar, who ya meeting?"  

"Yeah, who's the lucky guy?"  

"Do you keep him . . . whipped and creamed?"  

Legendary adult film star Sugar, born Sarah Halliday, breezed into Beso, the closing door barricading her from the quartet of camerawielding paparazzi. On stakeout in the restaurant's parking lot, they'd  descended as soon as her Jimmy Choos touched down on the blacktop,  dogging her from her black Ferrari to the entrance. Safely inside, she dragged a manicured hand through her waist-length blond waves, reminding herself that dealing with jerk reporters was all part of the job, and yet . . .  

I am so over LA.  

She scanned the low-lit bar and adjoining dining room with a practiced eye. Tucked into a table near the baby grand, Kim and Khloe Kardashian perched upon overstuffed chairs, noshing on the ceviche sampler. At the far side of the lounge, actress Eva Mendes and her escort made short work of the restaurant's signature tacos. Owned by Desperate Housewife Eva Longoria, the trendy nightspot served Latin  fusion fare to LA's A-listers, as well as those hoping to spot them. An  out-of-the-way burger dive would have suited Sarah far better, but Martin, her manager, had cautioned that, with her one hundredth film about to release, she needed to show herself around town. That wouldn't be an issue, not after tonight, but given the gravity of her news, she'd decided to indulge him.  

A twenty-something hostess teetered toward her in shiny, cheap heels, her overly made-up eyes huge in her heart-shaped face. "Mr. Levine is already seated. If you'd care to follow-"  

"Thanks, but I see him." Remembering all the shit part-time jobs she'd taken to support herself when she'd first come out to California, Sarah pulled a fifty from her purse and handed it to the girl before walking away.  

Entering the main bar area, she nodded to Kim in passing, and made her way over to the table occupied by her manager.  

A smile splitting his round face, Martin slid out of the wrap-around booth and stood. "I was starting to worry, and then I saw your text."  

His dark eyes slid over her, an infinitesimal nod signaling his approval of her strapless, candy-apple-red Stella McCartney jersey dress.  

Aware of the high whispers and open stares directed her way, she slipped into the curved cushion across from him, glad he'd gone ahead and ordered their drinks, a Laphroaig scotch for himself and a white wine for her. "Sorry I'm late. I got . . . caught up." Thinking of the reason for her delay, presently tucked inside her Prada purse, she reached for her wineglass and took a sip for courage. 

He resumed his seat, his smile slipping. "Tell me you didn't get another letter."  

Even after ten years together, his ability to read her struck her as uncanny. "I wish I could." She cast a covert glance around the room, relieved that the pianist had resumed playing. Satisfied that any gawkers had returned to their conversations, she opened her bag, took out the folded letter, and slid it across the table. "This makes number five."  

When the first anonymous note had arrived more than a month ago, she'd chalked it up to a secret crush, someone she'd maybe met in passing or worked with during the making of one of her films--a cameraman, prop person, or gopher who'd gotten access to her personal  information. But then more messages began arriving, one per week, each one referencing one of her film roles, and she was forced to face the terrifying truth. She had a new stalker, and this one was a lot more intense than the random nutcases who shadowed her on social media sites hoping to uncover her whereabouts. Those she could handle. When you had more than 500,000 Twitter followers, you had to expect there'd be a few who tried crossing the line. But this situation transcended cyberspace. The freak knew where she lived. He knew how and where to find her. He had found her.