Jack came awake slowly, groaning. He felt as if he’d been hit in the head with a crowbar. He rolled over in bed; his outflung arm cracked onto the nightstand, sent the lamp clattering to the floor. He opened one eye. The clock read: 8:07.
There must have been a power outage last night. He never slept past five o’clock.
Then he noticed something on the floor. Red. Small.
Smacking his dry lips, he stared at it, trying to focus.
It was a condom wrapper, ripped in half.
He bolted upright. At the movement, his headache lurched into a run.
Oh, shit. He glanced to the left.
The bed was empty.
Sagging forward, he closed his eyes for a long moment; then slowly, he pushed the covers aside again and got out of bed. He stumbled into the bathroom—where he saw that Sally had written a note on the mirror. In lipstick.
Great sex
XXOO
Sally
The a in her name had a little halo above it.
The headache kicked him in the skull, pounding.
It never would have happened if Birdie had moved to New York. If she hadn’t left him.
(Yeah, try that one on for size.)
The message on the mirror stared back at him.
Great sex.
It had been pretty damned good; that was true. Not jump-up-hit-your-head-against-the-ceiling great, but damned good. It had rejuvenated him, made him feel young again.
Wanted.
It had always been a weakness in him, that desperate, aching need to be wanted. In rehab, one of the shrinks had told him that his neediness was a by-product of having alcoholic parents who died too young. He didn’t know about that, or care particularly. What he did know was that it had almost ruined him once, that desperate need.
And it could ruin him again.
Let me give you some advice, man to man, Tom Jinaro had said on the day he’d dangled the NFL Sunday carrot. Stay away from drugs and DUIs and underage women. Opportunities can vanish in an instant.
If it got out that he’d had sex with his assistant …
The words SEXUAL HARASSMENT came at him hard. If Sally decided to, she could ruin him.
He’d set himself up as Mr. Morality, too.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, staring into the mirror. Sally’s cherry-red love note cut across his reflection.
“Never again,” he said out loud. “It was a onetime thing. A mistake.”
Elizabeth didn’t have to know. Ever.
“A onetime thing,” he said again, meaning it.
By the time he’d showered, shaved, dressed, and walked to the office, he felt better. Stronger and more sure of himself. He’d made a mistake—a whopper of one, to be sure—but it would stand alone. A high-rise of stupidity in the vast prairie of the rest of his life.
At his desk, he sat down and immediately started to go through the notes he’d made yesterday afternoon. He was working on a story about a horse camp in Poulsbo, Washington, called Blue Heron Farms, where disabled children learned to ride.
Suddenly the door opened.
Sally stood in the opening, dressed this morning in a slim black suit with an emerald-green silk blouse. Her smile was depressingly cheery.
She managed to make him feel old and young at the same time.
She closed the door behind her. “I’m sorry I left while you were still sleeping. I needed to be at work early,” she said.
“Don’t mention it.” He felt sick to his stomach. Nervous, ashamed, and excited all at once. Really, he thought, don’t mention it.
Smiling, she clasped her hands behind her back and strolled toward him. The clicking of her high heels sounded appallingly loud in the room. The only thing louder was the beating of his heart.
Onetime thing, he reminded himself.
“About last night …”
She placed her hands on his desk and leaned forward. From this angle, he could see the lacy beige edge of her bra. Pale, firm breasts swelled beside it.
He tried not to recall how sweet she’d tasted, how pink her nipples were—
Stop it.
“You’ll never guess who called for you this morning,” she said.
“Who?” He kept his gaze pinned to her face. Nothing below the collar. Or the top button at the very lowest.
“Your publicist. He asked me to pass along an offer … from People magazine.”
“People?” He rose out of his chair. “What did they want?”
She hitched one hip onto the edge of his desk. “They want to feature you in the ‘Fifty Most Beautiful People’ issue.”
“You’re kidding?”
“This is the big time, Jack,” she said. “You’re a star again.”
He didn’t mean to do it, but he reached out, pulled her into his arms.
“Take me on the shoot with you,” she said, tracing his lips with one finger. “It’s going to be at the Peninsula.”
He gazed down at her heart-shaped face and felt a sharp tug of desire. God help him, he wanted her again already.
Elizabeth tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep. She hadn’t realized how accustomed she’d become to privacy until Anita showed up.
At dawn, she got dressed and tiptoed across the hall, then eased the door of the guest bedroom open. Anita was still sleeping.