Jamie Sobrato - Once Upon A Seduction

“He thought it was mine, left behind in Martin’s cottage. It was his excuse to pay me an office call.”

She frowned. “I thought Martin didn’t leave any traces when he left.”

“Actually, he did leave a weird assortment of junk at his place, but nothing that could really lead us to him.”

“Why’d you bring that home?”

Skye frowned at the bra. “I thought we might want to perform a ritual burning. You know, to rid my life of the last physical trace of Martin.”

“Sorry, but ever since the drunken flaming-dildo incident, I’ve sworn off ritual burnings.”

Skye laughed in spite of her bad mood. Fiona had nearly burned down their apartment getting rid of the evidence of a previous boyfriend, who’d surprised her with an oh-so-romantic gift-wrapped dildo for Valentine’s Day—that he’d wanted her to use on him.

“Let me see that,” Fiona said, reaching for the bra. “Maybe it’ll fit me.”

“Right.” Skye tossed the bra to her. “In your porn-star dreams.”

Fiona held the triple-D-cup bra up to her C-cup chest. “It’s close.”

“Right. If you talk into it, there’ll be an echo.”

She turned the bra around and read the tag. “Lolita’s Creations, Las Vegas, Nevada. Size 34DDD. Wow, I’d be surprised if the owner of this can stand upright without assistance.”

“That’s kind of odd—a city name on a bra tag?”

“Maybe it’s a custom lingerie shop. I mean, look at this thing. It’s got some unusual details.”

There was a tiny beaded butterfly between the cups, and the edges were trimmed in sequins.

“I wonder…” Skye said, not quite ready to get her hopes up.

“If this is a clue to Martin’s whereabouts? It could be.” Fiona looked at the tag again. “The only other information is Dry Clean Only.”

“Why would anyone wear a dry-clean-only bra?” Skye asked as Fiona handed the bra back to her.

“Maybe if it’s, like, their professional attire?”

“So my ex was screwing a stripper, a show girl or a prostitute. That makes me feel so much better.”

“Don’t forget porn star.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“Why don’t you at least find out if Satan’s idea about Martin’s whereabouts matches up with your little lingerie clue?”

Her clue was hardly little, but Fiona did have a point.

“Okay, fine. I’ll talk to him, but if it’s a disaster, I’m giving you fifty percent of the blame.”

“Does Satan have a human name?”

“Nico Valletti, if you can believe it. He should be a soap opera star instead of a stalker.”

“Maybe Nico’s still lurking outside waiting for you.”

Skye tried to ignore the butterflies whirring in her belly as she stood, dropped the bra in her purse and put her shoes back on. “He drives a Ferrari,” she said, not sure what that suggested about his disaster potential.

“And he lives in Malibu. You could do worse.”

“Fiona, I’m going to talk to him about Martin, not scope him out as a possible rebound guy.”

“Every guy that rich and gorgeous has the potential for something.”

“I thought you had more integrity than me.”

Fiona grabbed the remote and switched off CNN, leaving just the jungle sounds to punctuate their conversation. From the distant tropics, a monkey screeched.

“I’m turning thirty next month,” she said. “The starving artist thing is getting old, and I don’t think it would be so bad to be with a guy who doesn’t have to go Dutch on every date.”

Skye blinked. She’d never thought she’d hear Fiona sounding so…pragmatic.

“What happened to, ‘Thirty is the year when we finally become real women’?”

“It is, and as a real woman, I think I’d like to have some financial stability in my life.”

“What are you saying?” Skye’s head was starting to do the same bongo-drum thing it did when she drank too many margaritas. Or maybe that was part of the jungle-sounds CD.

“This probably isn’t a good time to spring this on you,” Fiona said as she began to rearrange the found objects on the coffee table. “But I’ve decided to leave Club Sunset and take that pharmaceutical sales job my dad found for me.”

Skye sat on the ottoman, her beleaguered brain ready to call it quits for the day. She’d thought she’d always have Fiona to be her fellow starving artist. And all through the years, even though she was five years older than Skye, Fiona was the one who’d never seemed to mind being a waitress and earning petty cash here and there on her collages. She’d seemed to relish her carefree lifestyle.

“You? In sales?”

She shrugged. “Just until I set the art world on fire.”

“But—”

“Please don’t look so disappointed. I’ve given this a lot of thought.”

Skye produced a shaky smile. “Sorry, I’m just a little shocked. But you’re right, you’d be a fool to pass up the money.”

“At least we know there’ll be an opening at Club Sunset,” Fiona said, and that was the final straw.

“Excuse me,” Skye said.

She stood up and hurried into the bathroom to wash her face, returned and grabbed her bag, then hurried toward the door before she could burst into tears again.

“Skye? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I just need some fresh air,” she said, flashing a shaky smile at Fiona before she disappeared.

Outside, Nico was nowhere to be seen, and it was all for the best. She couldn’t have faced him now anyway without revealing herself as the basket case she actually was.

Skye drove on autopilot, her thoughts bouncing from one disastrous event to the next, tears prickling her eyes again as she navigated the road without thinking about it.

God, she’d turned into a caricature of a twenty-something. Job problems, guy problems, roommate problems…

She wasn’t sure where she was going, but she knew she didn’t want to go anywhere she’d already been. A half hour later, she was miles down the freeway, taking the Malibu exit to Martin’s house.

Well, actually, to Nico’s house. Who knew if he was home, but it was her turn to stalk him, regardless.

NICO DIDN’T KNOW whether to be relieved or frustrated that now he had no excuse not to put Skye out of his thoughts. But of course, if it was as easy as all that, he’d have forgotten about her weeks ago.

He closed his front door, kicked off his shoes, and walked through the house to the living room, which mocked him with its emptiness. Why the hell had he come home, anyway?

Because the thought of going out to dinner alone, or picking up carry-out alone, or sitting in a bar alone, might have meant crossing the thin line between sane and crazy. He’d always relished his single status, until the accident. Since his recovery, he’d continued to date, but the women who’d once amused him simply by being hot and willing were now not so satisfying.

Getting a glimpse of his own mortality could do that to a guy.

That hadn’t stopped him from seeking the company of women, but lately, all the company had been strictly sexual. And none of them seemed to care one way or the other.

The light on his answering machine was flashing, and the LCD said he had three messages, so he hit the play button and listened.

“Hey, Nico, busy tonight?” a woman’s voice said. He didn’t recognize her right away. “It’s Lisa. Call me if you’d like some company.”

Lisa. Lisa who? He felt a little pang of disgust at himself for not knowing. Company was the word he did know though—it was the universal booty-call code word.

A second message began to play. “Nico, hi. It’s me, Dawn. Just wondering if you’d like some company tonight.”

There it was again. That word.

A third message. “Hi, Nico. It’s Misha—”