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.
Whoever he was, he was definitely old school: cream-colored vellum stationery, calligraphy penmanship-the strokes bold but methodical, always in classic black ink with a broad nibbed pen. Quaint--and creepy.
Martin unfolded the paper and gave it a glance before refolding it and slipping it inside his jacket's breast pocket. "I'll take care of it."
Sarah set down her glass. "You said that before. Shouldn't we . . . I call the police at this point?"
He answered with a ferocious shake of his head, sending salt-and-pepper bangs flying. Despite repping her as well as several other notable adult actors, his hairstyle was circa 1960s Beatles. "You report this to the LAPD and every crackpot in the city is sure to come slithering out of his shit hole to take credit or worse, copycat. Is that what you want?" He paused, sucking at his top teeth. "Besides, what if it's Danny?"
Danny, the B-list TV actor with whom she'd spent four years, the last year devoted almost exclusively to waging a losing war to get him sober. Only Danny hadn't been interested in giving up the booze or the drugs, hadn't acknowledged he had any problem beyond her bitching. She'd put up with it all-the mood swings, the lies, the theft even-until one night eight months ago when their "difference of opinion" had exploded in a backhanded blow across her face. After throwing him out, this time for good, she'd picked up the phone and called Martin. He'd taken one look at her puffy face and pulled out his iPhone. Standing by while he made one call after the other, canceling her following day's shoot and rescheduling a week's worth of appointments, she'd acknowledged there was only one person she could possibly save: herself.
The next day she'd had all the locks changed.
Even if the culprit was an ex, standing by and doing nothing didn't sit well with Sarah. It took her back to that terrible time as a teenager when she'd sat by her mom's bed in hospice and watched, helpless, as day by day the cancer won. The grief had fueled her determination to live life on her own terms and to the fullest, which had meant pursuing her dream of stardom on the big screen. Leaving her native New York and driving cross country to LA in a beat-up Volkswagen with a single suitcase and a couple hundred bucks to her name had been one ballsy big risk. The move had paid off, albeit not in the way she'd intended. At casting calls, she'd been told she was too striking for commercials and too all-American for film work, where a more multicultural look was sought. Unlike her competition, she'd had no college degree and no acting credentials. Without money or experience, getting a SAG card was about as easy as hitching a ride to the moon.
Unable to make rent despite working numerous part-time jobs, sick of using pilfered ketchup packets and mugs of hot water to make "soup," she'd accepted a walk-on role in a porn film. At the wrap party, she'd met her future manager, Martin Levine. Under Martin's guidance, her walk-on part had led to a callback for a feature role in another adult film, and then another . . . Before long Sarah was reborn as the adult film sensation, Sugar, with more fans and more money than she'd ever dreamed possible.
Ten years later, she liked to think that gutsy, take-no-prisoners girl lived on inside her, but lately she wasn't so sure. Had success made her soft? Having a manager and a posse of publicity professionals was standard for someone who'd attained her level of stardom, but had all the support blunted her instincts and made her less than self-reliant?
Determined not to back down this time, she demanded, "Then what do I do? And Martin, whether or not it's Danny, at this point I have to do something."
He blew out a breath. "Relax, I have a guy on it."
"You hired a private detective!"
"Security professional," he amended, expression sheepish. "Former FBI, been working the private sector since he retired from the agency. Has an extensive background in executive escort. You couldn't be in better hands."
That was a relief. For an instant, she wondered why he hadn't told her before but then brushed the niggling annoyance aside. What mattered was that the situation was being handled. Besides, her stalker's latest lovelorn missive was only part of the reason she'd called this meeting.
She braced herself to deliver the news that would likely prompt Martin to order a second scotch-this time a double. "Thanks, but I won't need him after next week."
He straightened from the lounging position he favored. "Why is that?"
Sarah steeled herself. She owed Martin a hell of a lot. A leggy twenty-something with big dreams and average-sized breasts, she'd been easy to dismiss as just another wannabe. Martin had seen something in her that the other talent scouts and managers and casting agents hadn't-and he'd pushed hard to make sure producers and investors had seen it too. But no matter how amazing the money, she'd never seen porn as her end game.
"I've decided to leave LA. I'm going home, Martin, home to New York." There, she'd said it. Mouth dry, she retrieved her glass and took a sip.
Predictably his eyes bugged. "Are we talking a break or--"
"Retirement. We . . . I'm . . . talking about retiring." Dreading this conversation as she had, it was a relief to finally get the word out.
"If this is about not wanting to work with Bo Tucker, I'll pull strings and get him replaced. If the studio won't play ball, I'll get you out of the contract. I'll--"
"Thanks, but this isn't about Bo or the film." Given the shit Tucker had pulled on their last film, thrusting into her after the director had called "Cut," he was her least favorite male lead; still, she was enough of a professional to push past her personal dislike for the sake of the project. "It's a decision I've been coming to for a long time."
That was the truth. With the release of her latest, Camera Sutra, she had one hundred films to her credit, the final twenty produced under her Wing Star label. The previous year she'd been inducted into the Adult Video News Hall of Fame. The AVN recognition had led to cameo appearances on several popular mainstream TV shows, as well as a role in a major motion picture. Her roster of product endorsement contracts ranged from high-end lingerie to exotically flavored lube. Even for those who'd never viewed an adult film, her name was a household word synonymous with sex.
Unlike some in the industry whose money had gone to fund drug, gambling, or spending habits, she'd lived clean, saved smart, and invested wisely. She had an ocean-front bungalow in Venice Beach, a pied-à-terre on Paris's Left Bank, and more money than she could ever spend. What was left to strive for? She thought of several once-well-known adult film stars reduced to scraping for work, some resorting to comic walk-on roles where drooping breasts and wobbly thighs were made a mock of, and suppressed a shudder. Better to give up the game while she was still winning--while she was still a star.
And there was another reason, one she wasn't ready to share with anyone, not even Martin. Her former roommate and best friend, Liz, had breast cancer. Even after Liz got pregnant and left the industry to go back to New York, they'd kept in close touch-until six months ago when the regular contact had fallen off. When her first few messages went unreturned, Sarah had told herself it was the inevitable result of distance and differing life styles. Liz's son, Jonathan, was in first grade now, and as a single mom supporting them with her graphic design business, Liz more than had her hands full.
But then Sarah had happened to see Liz's status update on Facebook-she had breast cancer, stage two. Fuck email and fuck Facebook. Sarah had picked up the phone. The fragility of the voice answering on the other end had shocked her. With remarkable calm, Liz had explained that the double mastectomy had gone as well as could be expected, but unfortunately the cancer had spread to several axillary lymph nodes. A rigorous course of dose-dense chemo was her best hope of beating the disease. Hanging up two hours later, Sarah was decided. Whether Liz admitted it or not, she needed hands-on help, and Sarah was determined to give it.
"I need you to make the announcement, send out a press release or call a press conference, whatever you think is best. I've already drafted a statement for my website, a short letter thanking my fans and fellow actors, and of course you, for all the years of loyalty and support." She paused, holding his gaze. "I really appreciate everything you've done for me. I hope you know that."
He let out another long breath. "Look, Sarah, sooner or later every adult film star hits the wall. Take my advice, and don't burn any bridges. Take some time off, a couple of months, and think things over."
"But--"
"Where's the fire?" he broke in with a shrug of beefy shoulders.
"Retiring is a lot like dying-once you've done it, there's not much hope of coming back. C'mon, baby, have I ever steered you wrong?"
She swallowed hard, thinking again of all his support while she'd picked up the pieces of her life post-Danny. "No, you haven't."
"Good, then we're agreed. As far as the press is concerned, we're pulling out because this picture isn't the right vehicle for you-period. We're reviewing scripts for your next project, and in the meantime you're taking time off, an extended vacation."
In LA speak "extended vacation" was code for rehab. Martin probably figured the fumes from any such rumors would fuel her career long enough for her to change her mind about coming back. There really was almost no such thing as bad press, even if most of the "breaking news" and Twitter buzz was bullshit. As much as she planned to prove Martin wrong about the finality of her decision, beyond her inner urge for closure, she couldn't come up with a good argument against waiting.
Besides, it would be a lot easier to press her point from across the country than a restaurant table.
Sarah reached for her menu, although whatever appetite she'd walked in with was lost. "Okay, we'll do it your way-for now. I'm on vacation. Sorry, 'extended vacation.'"
Extended vacation--but in her heart, she knew what this move back to New York really meant.
Chapter One
Manhattan, New York City, One Month Later
"Sorry about tonight." Iraq war veteran and now executive director of his family's charitable foundation, Cole A. Canning bent to the taxi's rolled-down rear window. "Feel better. I'll call you," he added, knowing full well he wouldn't, at least not any time soon.
Candace lifted her chalky face and nodded, the minor movement sending an apparent ripple of pain over her pristinely made-up features.
"O-kay, th-thanks?"
His date duties discharged, Cole stepped back to the curb, and the cab sped off. Watching it go, he released a relieved breath. The Canning Foundation Gala at the Soho Grand had been a bust as far as fund-raising--the response to the silent auction had seriously sucked--but at least Candace's martini-induced migraine had given him an early out to the evening.
It was Friday night, or the early hours of Saturday morning, depending on your perspective. Lower Manhattan was party central or close to it for everyone from beer-guzzling NYU students to stressed out finance guys swilling single malt. The possibilities were, if not infinite, certainly numerous. Another drink at a nearby watering hole? A strip show at one of the many Chelsea gentlemen's clubs? Breakfast at a greasy spoon? Or he could head home to his Upper West Side pre-war and not sleep there. He'd moved in just six months ago, and already the hand-woven carpets were showing wear from his pacing. Even though he was a New Yorker born and bred, since returning stateside two years ago, he often felt as if the avalanche of choices was burying him.
Out of habit, he reached inside his tuxedo jacket's pocket for his cigarettes. Pulling out the empty pack, he cursed. Had he really gone through the whole thing in the last three hours? Good thing smoking was prohibited in the city's public places. If he could smoke openly, rather than having to sneak outside, his lungs would be seriously fucked.
But now he wanted a cigarette, and he wanted it too badly to care about the long-term health effects. If two back-to-back tours in Iraq heading an elite bomb disposal unit had taught him anything, it was that life was short and invariably uncertain. What was the point of denying yourself pleasure in the present when "someday" might never arrive?
Fortunately the corner bodega across the street still had its lights on. Pulling up the collar of his tuxedo jacket against the early spring chill, he wove his way through the oncoming cars. Reaching the mini market, he swung open the glass door, setting off the bell's jangle.
The blonde bent over the frozen desserts freezer caught his eye the moment he walked in-or rather her ass did. Considering it was firm and round and worthy of Jennifer Lopez, not to mention all but shoved in his face, how could he not notice? His gaze slid downward to her legs--long and slim and beautifully shaped, with just the right amount of muscle beneath her form-fitting yoga pants. Her hair was shiny blond and pinned up with one of those hinged-clip contrivances that women seemed to reach for when they were in a hurry.
A plastic shopping basket looped over one slender forearm, she inventoried the ice cream selection as if lives hung in the balance. So far her back was to him. Curious to see if she had a pretty face to match the smoking hot body, he circumvented a snack display and deliberately navigated his way nearer. The maneuver gained him a glimpse of a sun-kissed profile and the contents of her basket-a half dozen individual ice cream cups and, so far, nothing else. Single and living alone, he surmised, no longer in any rush to be on his way.
Backtracking to the counter, he nodded to the Indian dude standing behind it. "Pack of Marlboro Black."
The clerk turned away to the shelving behind the counter, grabbed the pack, and pivoted back around. "Fourteen fifty."
Highway robbery but, like any addict, Cole was prepared to pay the price. He reached for his wallet and pulled out a twenty.
Waiting for his change, he cast a look back over his shoulder to the blonde. Should he maybe offer her a cigarette as an ice breaker? Dressed as though she'd come from an exercise class, she didn't strike him as a smoker. Then again, he didn't let his habit hold him back from pounding out his morning five in Central Park or from working out
like a maniac at the gym. Some might call it exercise, but for Cole it was therapy, the only kind a Canning allowed himself-that and sex.
"Do you wish for a bag?"
What Cole wished for was an excuse to strike up a conversation with the blonde. Turning back to the counter, he shook his head. "No, thanks." He slipped the cigarettes into his coat pocket and turned around.
The blonde had straightened. She stood, her body ever so slightly turned away from the freezer-and toward him. Holding out a carton of strawberry, she appeared to pore over the product packaging.
Cole grabbed a Sports Illustrated from the magazine rack and sidled over. Flipping pages, he cleared his throat. "Big decision, huh?"
She started, her heart-shaped face lifting to his, her full lips parting. Gazing into her emerald-colored eyes, it hit him. I know her! He wasn't always the greatest with names, but faces he never forgot, especially beautiful ones. Cole racked his brain. Had he slept with her? No, her he would definitely remember.
"Excuse me?" She looked back at him as though annoyed by the interruption-definitely not the reaction he was used to.
He gestured to the ice cream thawing in her ringless left hand. "Those single servings are kid-sized portions. Why not just buy a half gallon?" Ditching the magazine, he moved closer.
Her deep-green gaze narrowed. "Not that it's any of your business, but I like variety."
Cole could feel the corners of his mouth kicking up. "What a coincidence, so do I."
He didn't miss how her slender shoulders stiffened. The way she raked him with her gaze had him wishing he'd waited before stripping off the bowtie and opening his shirt collar.
"Heavy night?" she asked, her tone giving the freezer stiff competition.
He shrugged. "Nothing I can't handle."
Her gaze honed in on his coat pocket. "Smoker, huh?" She said the word as though it was synonymous with syphilis.
"Only on weekends," he lied. "Besides, all the recent studies say processed food is the real killer." He'd only read one such study. Okay, so he hadn't read the actual study but had seen it referenced in a New York Times article--practically the same thing.
She let out a derisive laugh, her full mouth moistened with the tiniest dab of clear lip gloss. "Research sponsored by what, Phillip-Morris?"
At least he had her talking and smiling-well, sort of. Pressing his advantage, he added, "Why don't we grab a drink somewhere and compare research notes?" Once he set her down with a drink, he'd have plenty of time to figure out how he knew her.
Perfect half-moon brows lifted. "It's almost one o'clock in the morning."
Cole shrugged. "Yeah and it's also New York, so what do you say?"
She pulled a tight smile. "Thanks, but I don't think so."
It had been a long time since a woman had made him work for it, and the blonde was putting him through his paces. Her hard-to-get act was making him hard for real.
"Why not?" he asked.
She dropped the strawberry ice cream into her basket along with the others. "Not that I need to justify myself but judging from the smell of you, I'd say you've already had quite a few cocktails."
The smell of him--ouch! That was harsh. Memo to self: buy breath mints on the way out.
"And my ice cream would melt."
That settled it. Cole meant to make her melt-and cream. "I have ice cream at my place," he said, flashing a smile. To his best recollection, his freezer held only a half-empty bottle of Absolut, but that would work too.
Her pretty lips firmed into a frown. Clearly his jaunty reference to taking her home had been premature, a major miscalculation. "You have a good evening." She pushed past him to the counter.
Shit! She wasn't playing hard to get or playing at all. She was blowing him off for real--and that really sucked. For the first time in . . . forever, Cole seriously considered dropping his surname. Canning wasn't quite Kennedy, but so far as the fishpond of New York City society, it came close.
Ignoring the clerk's smirk, he followed her over. "Suit yourself, but you're missing out. I'd show you a really good time."
Reaching inside her purse to pay, she let out a laugh. "It's all my loss, I'm sure." Her mocking smile sealed the sarcasm.
Cole held up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. "You win. Have a nice life. Enjoy your ice cream."
She grabbed the plastic bag off the counter and turned to go. "Thanks, I plan to."
He exchanged looks with the clerk, who remained sagely silent. Waiting until she'd cleared the threshold, he pointed again to the behind the counter shelving. "Make it a carton."
A scream sent him spinning. Outside the glass storefront, a young guy in a navy blue hoodie body slammed the blonde. A vicious downward tug snapped the strap of her shoulder bag and sent her folding to the sidewalk. Shit! Cole tore toward the glass door, yanked it open, and raced out. He reached her just as the attacker sped off with her purse.
Cole spared a swift look down, his soldier's eye assessing her for injury. She'd have bruised knees tomorrow, and her shoulder would be sore from where the bag strap had broken, but otherwise she'd be fine, at least physically. From experience he knew that the worst wounds were often on the inside. Once the adrenalin spike subsided, she'd be pretty shaken up.
"You okay?" he asked, holding out his hand.
She grabbed hold and got to her feet. Sparing a swift glance at the ice cream scattered along the garbage-stacked curb, she said, "Yeah but he got my--"
"I saw. Call 911." He reached inside his jacket pocket and tossed her his iPhone.
Heedless of his tuxedo and wing tips, Cole gave chase down West Broadway, his runner's legs pulverizing the pavement, his sprinting strides cutting the thief 's lead from more than a block to steps. Coming up on Canal, the scumbag tried losing him in the pedestrian traffic and late night food carts, but Cole kept his gaze locked on his quarry.
Closing in, he lunged. He grabbed hold hard, bringing them both to the ground. The mugger landed in a face plant, the stolen handbag flying free. Pinning him to the pavement, Cole kicked the purse out of reach but not so far that someone might snatch it. Despite two years of disuse, his combat training kicked in, a dizzying, primal rush. He started in, raining punishing punches to the guy's adrenals and kidneys. Groans and gasps, pleadings and promises punctured the collective quiet of bystanders' bated breaths. To a man, the spectators stood sidelined. But then this was New York Fucking City. It wasn't like anyone was going to grow the balls to step up and stop him. He could count on blind eyes and collective amnesia the moment the police arrived. He only hoped no one was Tweeting his picture or worse, taking video to post later. Given his standing in the philanthropic community, being made out as a brute on social media would seriously fuck with his fundraising.
But he'd already gone too far to worry about that. Grabbing a fistful of the scumbag's hair, he was poised to grind the guy's face into the subway grill when he caught footfalls running toward them. New York's Finest finally? It was about fucking time.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a slender hand swoop down and fasten onto his striking arm. "Stop! You'll kill him!"
It was her, the blonde. Chest heaving, Cole shook her off. "You . . . say that like . . . like it's a bad thing." Holding the mugger down, he risked a look up.
"Please . . . stop." She stared down at him imploringly.
Succumbing to the moment's distraction proved to be a monumental mistake. Beneath him, the bastard bucked, rolled, and rebounded to his feet. Cole shot upright and made a grab for him. He got hold of one arm but lost his grip, catching only cloth. Shedding the garment, the mugger jerked free and peeled off. Darting across Canal, he just missed being creamed by an oncoming cab-fucking shame--and disappeared down Baxter Street.
Holding the hoodie, Cole wheeled around to the woman. "I had him. What the fuck is your problem?"
She stared as though he'd grown a second head. The latter might not be a bad idea. God knew the one he had was pounding.
"My problem? You're the one who went all Lethal Weapon just now."
Swiping a sleeve across his sweating forehead, he glanced around as the spectators dissipated. "What did you expect me to do, cradle him in my arms until the cops got here? Where the fuck are they anyway? Did the 911 dispatcher give you an ETA?"
She hesitated, biting her bottom lip.
Disgusted by the slow police response, Cole threw the sweatshirt to the gutter. "You called 911, right?"
She still didn't answer, and this time her silence told him exactly what he didn't want to hear. "You didn't make the call, did you? Why the fuck not?"
"I don't want any pub . . . any police."
Sucking on his split knuckles, he shook his head. "Why? Are you in the Witness Protection Program?"
She folded her free arm about herself as if suddenly feeling the chill. "Of course not."
A cigarette would be really great right now. He pulled the crushed packet from his pocket and threw it to the ground. "Fuck!"
She eyed him, her slightly superior attitude doing nothing to buoy his mood. "Maybe you should consider it a sign."
He jerked his head up. "I'll probably regret asking, but a sign of what?"
A shimmy of slender shoulders answered. "A sign you should quit.
In case you missed the memo, cigarettes are bad for you." She smiled, but her eyes stayed serious.
Cole snorted, not sure how he felt about being preached to by a pretty but so far nameless woman. "You work for the Surgeon General or something?"
In Iraq, smoking had gotten him and the other guys through the tedium and the homesickness. Being the leader for an elite three-man explosive ordnance disposal team had brought hair-raising moments and split second decisions juxtaposed with long periods of downtime.
Unlike most of his fellow soldiers, he'd drunk little. A bomb, any bomb, wasn't something you wanted to face hungover, and the makeshift ones were a lot harder to detect than the military models. These days most IEDs, Improvised Explosive Devices, were made without metal and electronic parts, rendering standard monitoring equipment next to useless-and the clever fuckers who made them were getting better at it all the time.
"Not . . . exactly." Her voice called him back to the present--the United States of America, New York City, April 2014. The thief he'd wrestled to the ground was only that, not an insurgent and not a terrorist.
"Not exactly, huh?" he repeated, taking a moment to regulate his breathing. Pounding the piss out of the punk had felt good, too good.
"Tonight my smoking habit turned out to be damned lucky for one of us--you."
As if chastened, she nodded. "You're absolutely right. Thank you for smoking."
Another smile, this one bordering on a grin, lit her face, igniting the sexual spark Cole had felt from the moment he'd set eyes on her inside the store. Where had he met her before? The curiosity was damn near killing him.
Wiping his palms on the tops of his pants, he said, "Look, as we've established, I'm kind of drunk. I need to eat something. You wanna grab--"
"Thanks, but no."
Another refusal, seriously! Cole couldn't recall the last time a woman had turned him down, let alone twice in twenty minutes.
His damsel in distress was turning into something even more irresistible--a challenge.
He folded his arms across his chest. "I haven't even asked you yet."
"Sorry, it's just that I don't . . . " Her voice trailed off. For the first time since being knocked to her knees, she seemed less than one hundred percent together.
Seeking out chinks in armor, sniffing out weaknesses, was Cole's specialty, or at least it had been. Pressing his advantage, he said, "Did you or did you not come out tonight for ice cream?"
"Yes, but--"
"No buts. Washington Square Diner makes a hell of a walnut sundae. Their banana splits don't suck either."
She hesitated. "It's late. I should get home."
He stared pointedly at the purse she held by its severed strap. "I just saved your life-or at least your credit history--and ruined my penguin suit in the process. The least you can do is to buy me a greasy breakfast in thanks."
"B-but--"
"No buts," he broke in, unfolding his arms. "It's your karma on the line. We'll negotiate the dry cleaning bill once I've fed the machine."
He patted his gut, which was seriously empty of anything but booze, and gave her a deliberately huge grin.
"You're--"
"Persistent, yes I know. It's one of my few good points." Angling away, he faced out onto the street and lifted a hand to hail an oncoming cab, the on-duty light fortuitously shining. The driver skidded toward them, rolling up to the curb.
Cole turned back to the blonde. Nibbling her bottom lip, she still seemed undecided. The last time he'd been so completely enthralled, his obsession had been his first C4 explosive. The high he'd gotten from dismantling it had been unlike anything he'd felt before or since. For a flicker of an instant, it occurred to him to wonder why continuing their . . . encounter had become so goddamned important. Challenge, he reminded himself, the fleeting yet heady thrill of victory, a distraction from another otherwise endless-seeming night, nothing more.
He reached out and opened the bright yellow door. "So what's it going to be?" Heart drumming, he waited, knowing that despite everything she might well walk away.
She hesitated and then took a step toward him. "I hate bananas, and my name is Sarah." Brushing against him, she ducked and climbed inside.
###
Cole, her rescuer, surveyed her metal ice cream dish with definite disapproval. "Single scoop, plain vanilla, huh? I wouldn't have figured you for a vanilla girl."
The gleam in his eye told her the double entendre was entirely intended. Determined to give as good as she got, Sarah smiled back. "Every flavor has its charm. Sometimes plain vanilla is exactly what I'm in the mood for."
He cocked his head to the side, his deep blue eyes fixing on hers. "And other times?"
"I like all the flavors." Deliberately, she ran her tongue along her lower lip, savoring the last trace of sticky sweetness. It was what Martin liked to call her "money shot," and it always worked, only this time there were no cameras honing in for a close-up--only one pair of ocean-blue eyes.
He swallowed hard, the corded muscles of his throat working. The table hid their lower bodies, but she'd bet her AVN trophy he was hard. "All, huh?"
"Pretty much, yes."
"Me too."
His comment snapped her back to sanity. God, she was flirting! It had been so long, she'd almost forgotten what it felt like. For the past decade, sex had been her job, a very public, very commercial act performed before a director, production crew, and rolling cameras. Private courtship rituals, the subtle interplay of sensual advance and retreat, seemed a relic from a kinder, gentler, bygone time-or maybe not so bygone after all.
Pull it together, Halliday. This isn't courtship. It's breakfast--bad for you breakfast--with a semi-drunk dude.
Drunk, semi-drunk, or stone-cold sober, Cole was altogether too sexy to dismiss as anything other than one hundred percent primal male. Tall, broad-shouldered, and built, dark-haired and blue-eyed, he was hot enough to be a porn star, better looking than many of the name actors with whom she'd worked. Other than offering his hand in exiting the taxi, he hadn't made a move to touch her and yet she felt every stroke of his gaze like a physical caress. Sitting across from him at the Formica-top table, the neon lights overhead searing in their brightness, she was intensely aware of her nipples hardening and her sex moistening. Watching him butter another piece of dry, white-bread toast, the tops of his big, broad-backed hands dusted with black hair, she couldn't stop thinking how those hands might feel palming her breasts and playing in her panties. The fantasy landed a delicious staccato beating between her thighs.
And then he had to go and ruin it all by asking, "Have we met before?"
Fuck! She shook her head. "No, at least I don't think so."
She added the qualifier to throw him off. She couldn't yet put her finger on it, but he had . . . not a cop vibe but something similar, maybe some other area of law enforcement, even though he wore a designer tuxedo and collar-length hair. If she had any willpower remaining, she'd get up, go home and settle for the simple, safe release of her vibrator. But this man, Cole, seemed to melt her resistance, much like the ice cream turning into a puddle on her plate.
He ran his gaze over her, his darkened irises unpeeling her layered clothing, until she felt as though she were naked. "You're not from here."
Despite her desire for subterfuge, his faulty assumption had the native New Yorker in her bristling. "I'll have you know I'm a Brooklyn girl, born and bred. Di Fara's on Avenue J, best slice in the city."
Her reference to the iconic Midwood pizzeria got his attention--and seemingly his respect. "I stand corrected." He eased back in his seat, dunking a triangle of toast in the broken yolk of one over-easy egg. "So, Brooklyn, what brings you back to Gotham?"
Sarah hesitated. Other than her identity, she had nothing worthy of detecting. Starring in porn films wasn't illegal. Neither was being superlatively successful at it. Her taxes were paid, her driving record spotless, her personal life a squeaky-clean solo act-flat lined, boring.
Jaywalking was her only infraction, and that just since moving back to New York.
He popped a piece of bacon into his mouth. Chewing, he slid his gaze over her, taking his time. Sarah stiffened, suddenly carried back to her first casting call, those terrible tense moments waiting to take off her robe in a roomful of strangers for the very first time.
Swallowing, he finally said, "You all but radiate sunshine and fresh air, you still smell like the beach, and you're wearing pastels. You don't see all that many New York women in orange and green."
The woman he described sounded mainstream, utterly wholesome, more like a soccer mom than her carefully crafted porn persona. As Sugar, she could make men pop with a single sultry look, but as Sarah she was considerably less confident. Unsure of whether she was being complimented or criticized, she glanced down at her patterned Ann Taylor knit-wool sweater. The v-necked, slim-fitting cardigan was one of her go-to pieces. Until now, it hadn't occurred to her that it might not be right for New York. Then again, other than a weekly coffee meet-up with Liz's friends and a few solo restaurant dinners, she hadn't gone out since she'd gotten here.
"That would be coral and mint," she corrected.
He rolled his eyes in the way of a man who couldn't care less about clothes, despite being dressed in custom-tailored, designer evening wear. The sapphire studs sparkling from his French cuffs would cover the rent on her Soho sublet for several months. "I'm figuring you for West Coast."
Surrendering, she admitted, "LA, I just moved back."
"Job relocation? Family?"
"Spanish Inquisition?"
He dropped the toast point and held up both hands. The movement caused his sleeves to ride up. The sudden fantasy image of strapping cuffs around those thick, masculine wrists took her breath away.
"Mea culpa, just making conversation, Brooklyn. Forget I asked."
His sarcasm made her feel silly. Was she taking this incognito crap too far? "Sorry, it's just that I'm. . . a very private person." A very kinky private person who, it seemed, badly needed to get herself laid.
"Duly noted."
"I moved back in part to help out a friend who's . . . going through a hard time." Even to a stranger, okay an almost stranger, who'd never met and would never meet Liz, the Big C seemed too big of a deal to confide.
He nodded. "That's very altruistic."
"Jesus, are you mocking me?"
He looked genuinely surprised. "No, but you might want to offload that chip on your shoulder. It must be getting pretty heavy."
Feeling like a jerk, she subsided back against the vinyl-covered booth. What was it about this guy that made it so easy for her to lose control? "Sorry, it's just . . . weird being back."
"Tell me about it." He rolled his eyes, only this time she sensed empathy, not sarcasm.
"So where are you back from?" she asked, as much from genuine curiosity as wanting to shift the subject away from her.
"Hell." His sudden sobering told her he wasn't joking--and that he was a lot more complicated than just another entitled rich guy out for a thrill. Whatever his deal--mood disorder, recent divorce, or something much darker--she was done with being a fixer. Her trusty vibrator waited. Thanks to her sexy rescuer, she'd have an inventory of fresh fantasies to play out in her head while pleasuring herself.
"Well, thanks again for coming to my rescue." She shoved a hand inside her broken bag, brought out some loose bills, and threw two twenties down on the table--more than enough to cover their check, along with a healthy tip for their server. Eye on the exit, she scooted out and stood.
Cole rose with her. "This is how you say thank you? You're not the only one who likes dessert. I was just about to order pie. Stick around."
He didn't exactly body block her, but his stance meant she'd have to go around him to leave.
She planted a fist on one hip as her grandma used to do, the universal posture of strong women. "Look, I really appreciate what you did for me earlier, and for the record I'm happy to pay for your dry cleaning or buy you a new tux--and yes, I realize it's Ralph Lauren.
But if you think I owe you something more--"
"You don't owe me shit." He wisely kept his arms at his sides. Had he attempted to touch her, let alone hold her back, he would have found his groin greeting her knee.
"Great, then we're done here."
"Not quite. I'd like to see you again."
He stood so close she could feel his exhaled breath touching her cheek. The alcohol she'd smelled on him earlier was gone now, obliterated by weak coffee and greasy food and, she suspected, the fistful of candy mints he'd grabbed from the dish on their way inside. Beneath the rumpled tux, his skin exuded expensive cologne, sweat, and the unmistakable musk of male arousal. If she licked him, he would taste briny like the Blue Point Oysters she'd missed while in California.
Without looking down, she knew his erection was a hairsbreadth away from brushing the bottom of her belly. Suddenly his hardness and strength were everything she wanted to feel. The thought of all that male muscle and liquid heat grinding against her made her want to scoot back onto the table's edge, slip down her pants, and spread her legs-wide.
Instead she shook her head. "Thanks, that's very flattering, but I'm not interested."
That was a lie. Sarah couldn't remember the last time she'd been so interested. Even in his better days, Danny had never made her feel anything close to this. In the last few minutes, her panties' crotch had gone from moist to milking. If she stuck around much longer, she'd be leading him into the bathroom for a quickie.
"It's not meant to be flattering. It's meant to be honest."
"How's this for honest? I don't date."
"Great neither do I. So now that we've settled that, your place or mine?"
His was alpha male on steroids. She should be pissed off; she was pissed off, but she was also reluctantly, irredeemably hot for him. "You don't take no for an answer do you?"
His squared jaw jutted ever so slightly. "Never."
"I don't hook up with strangers."
Just because she was a porn star didn't mean any guy who felt like it could walk up and fuck her. For many men, that was news. As much as the public equated pornography with promiscuity, she'd always been picky about her lovers. Her sexual health was too important to her not to be. Given that performers were screened for STDs every fourteen to twenty-eight days, she was a pretty safe bet.
He nodded. "Good plan. Fortunately we're not strangers. I saved your ass, and you just bought me breakfast." Looking beyond her, he flagged down the harried server for the check. "I'm guessing that you live close by, probably just a few blocks from that bodega--unless you have a thing about trekking across town to buy single-serving ice cream cups, which would be a time suck as well as really weird."
Even while turning her on, he could floor her by saying something funny. Fighting a smile, she dragged a hand through her loosened hair, the clip lost somewhere along the way. "I live a few blocks away . . . on Elizabeth Street," she admitted. Jesus, why had she told him that!
A man like Cole would see that as an invitation to fuck her. Then again, wasn't it?
His smile broadened. "Great, it's your place then. I just hope you're not a slob or something. Panties on the floor and dishes in the sink are big libido busters for me."
He really was . . . impossible. She shook her head. "Jesus, you don't quit do you? How do I know you're not a serial killer?"
He appeared to consider that. "You said you came back to the city to help out a friend, right?"
Wondering what he was getting at, she said, "Yeah, what about it?"
"So send her a text message. Let her know who you're with." He jammed a hand into his back pocket and brought out a wallet, worn but obviously expensive. "Here's my driver's license. Tell her you're with me, give her my name and license number, and that way in the extremely unlikely event they find you floating in the Hudson, he'll know who to send the cops after." He flipped the driver's license toward her.
Colvin A. Canning. His surname screamed Hamptons set. The photograph, more than five years old, showed a younger, brighter eyed him. Birth year of 1984, which made him just thirty, four years younger than she, not that it mattered-much. The last name sounded familiar, but then maybe it was because it was so fucking waspy-more fodder for her trust-fund-brat theory.
She looked from the license to him. "You're serious, aren't you?"
He slanted a smart-assed smile. "I guess it's a little late in the game to mention I'm a virgin."
She gave up and laughed. "You're funny." When was the last time a man had made her laugh? Like making her wet, it had been a while.
"Yeah, I know, Letterman had better watch out. Seriously, though, I have one condition."
"You . . . you have conditions. You're the one who propositioned me, buddy." Sarah didn't know what she wanted to do more-fuck him or slap him. Actually she wanted to do both-preferably at the same time.
Grinning, he said, "Just remember, what happens in Soho stays in Soho."
~~~ ~~~
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