Isabel Sharpe - All I Want...

A piece of silverware clattered from the booth behind her.

“What?”

“Seeing someone that makes me that hot…and just going for it. Right then. Not even saying anything.” She watched her sister’s face brighten and she cheered silently. “Not worrying about a single consequence. Totally animal. Totally wild.”

“But that’s so dangerous, I mean it’s…nuts.” She breathed out a laugh, as if the idea was ludicrous, which of course it was…but exciting.

“Of course it’s nuts. That’s why it’s only a fantasy. But Luce, you can have that fantasy with this guy, only in a safer context because you already know he’s not a psycho.” She put as much earnestness into her eyes as she could, willing Lucy to drop the safe habit and fling herself out there. This was Lucy’s chance to escape.

“I couldn’t do that to Link.”

Krista clenched her teeth. “Have a drink with Josh, that’s all I’m suggesting. If something is meant to be between you, the attraction will only get stronger. If not, you’ll be able to get out with no guilt and no hard feelings.”

Lucy shook her head. “I couldn’t go behind Link’s back.”

“Then tell him.” Krista kept her frustration hidden. “You’re going to have a drink with a coworker, that’s not immoral. Link doesn’t own you.”

Lucy bit her lip, picked up her fork and pushed a shrimp around on her plate. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” Yes! Wow! She’d think about it! Progress. “And while you’re there, do me a favor, okay?”

“Oh, jeez, I can’t wait to hear this. What, don’t wear panties and flash him?”

“Oooh, good one.” Krista nodded approvingly. “No. Ask him if he has a brother.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I’m seriously needing some action.”

Another clatter came from the booth behind them. Its occupant leaped up. A waitress hurried over with a towel, ostensibly to mop up a spill.

Oops. Clumsy.

Krista was about to turn back to her meal when something…no, that was crazy. But yes, something…made her crane around farther for a glimpse of the man’s face at the same time his eyes made the trip to visit hers.

Eureka.

Tall, not dark but handsome, yessss, and the kind of kapow chemistry that didn’t happen very often but always, in her experience, promised something good. And did he look familiar? Maybe. Not quite. Most likely looked like someone else she knew.

Happiness.

“Water jump out of your glass?” She smiled and checked discreetly for a ring, hoping, when she found none, that her eyes were broadcasting the invitation she wanted them to be and that he’d respond. Because quite frankly all this talk of fantasy and thrills and the excitement of someone new had put her in the mood for her own adventure. Not to mention that she’d spend the next few days researching romantic holiday getaways without so much as the hint of a romance in her own life.

So how ’bout it, sailor?

Her sailor gave her a tight smile, threw a few bills on his table and walked past, then out of the restaurant, clearly destined for other, much luckier, ports than hers.

But she couldn’t shake the strange feeling that either she’d seen that man before…or that she’d see him someday again. Soon.

“YOU WHAT?” SETH ROSE out of his office chair, phone to his ear, trying to tell himself he hadn’t just heard what he’d heard from the lips of his stepsister. “You what?”

“I told you.” Aimee used her snippiest pouty voice, which meant she knew she’d screwed up big-time, but rather than admit it, she’d cement herself into her own version of what was right, and not even the jackhammer of logic could cut her out of it. “I sent Juice after Krista Marlow, to the hotel you said she was going to in Maine.”

“I told you that so you’d relax knowing she was out of your hair for a few days. Not so you’d send your bodyguard to beat her up.” He slumped back into his father’s chair. Giuseppe “Juice” Viegro—hired by Aimee a year ago after a creepy middle-aged man decided she’d been put on Earth to earn his love—could intimidate a sumo wrestler.

“You saw what she wrote about me. She thinks I’m some no-talent moron. Well, I’m not taking it anymore. She needs to understand what she writes about me hurts. And if Juice can intimidate her a little in the process, then I say good! She deserves it.”

“Aimee.” He used his patient-yet-threatening big-brother voice. “Does the word harassment mean anything to you?”

“Whadya think she’s doing to me?”

“It’s her job to write articles.” He closed his eyes, shutting out the portrait of his father on the dark wood wall, holding the Wellington crest as if he was lord of the manor.

“Well, it’s Juice’s job to protect me and that’s what he’s doing.”

“How is he protecting you in Maine?” Seth opened his eyes and turned his back on the portrait. His father and stepmother had raised Aimee to be this way; Seth shouldn’t have to play cleanup.

“He’s the only one I trust. He won’t hurt her, he’ll just talk to her and make her see it my way.”

“Why not pay her a nice threatening visit closer to home?”

“Juice’s family is in Maine. He volunteered when he saw how upset I was. I thought it was sweet of him.”

“Sweet of him?” He clamped his lips together so he wouldn’t say the word that came to mind instead of sweet. Juice might be enormous and terrifying, but he obviously fit just fine around Aimee’s little finger. “Call him off, Aimee. Now. If he so much as touches her, even just to scare her, we could have a lawsuit on our hands so big it would—”

“I’m not calling him off. You’ve done nothing. It’s up to me now.”

“Aimee.”

“No.” She hung up the phone, a toddler throwing a toy, a preteen stamping her foot.

Seth roared so loudly his grandmotherly and extremely efficient secretary, Sheila Bradstone, came to the door and asked him if he was all right. He blinked at her, undoubtedly bright red with fury, clutching his cell phone as if he’d like to hurl it through his corner-office window, kept frighteningly clean by the nightly janitorial crew.

“Fine.” He managed a clenched-teeth smile. “Just a tad frustrated. Anything I can do for you?”

“Now that you mention it, I’m ordering Christmas gifts for the board members and wondered if you wanted me to take care of your family gifts again this year.”

He resisted groaning. Since his mom had died and the warm traditions of his childhood died with her, holidays had become just another pain-in-the-ass obligation. “Sure, thanks. Whatever I got them is fine again. In a different color or something. Use your judgment.”

She gave him a maternal look of concern. “Aimee causing trouble again?”

“What else?”

Sheila shook her gray head and tsk-tsked sympathetically. She’d lived through the battles Seth had getting Aimee to agree to be spokesperson for Wellington in the first place. “If she’d been my daughter…”

Seth laughed, albeit grimly, at the mental picture of Sheila taking a belt to Aimee’s backside. His stepmother had no time for discipline, too busy spending Wellington money as fast as his financially conservative father let her get her hands on it. “I wish she had been your daughter. Then I wouldn’t be at risk of developing ulcers.”

“If you’ll excuse me…” Sheila hesitated, frowning slightly. Which could only mean she had some opinion she was pretty sure he wasn’t going to like.

“Yes?”

“Behavior like Aimee’s is often a cry for attention.”

“Attention?” He shook his head in disbelief. “She doesn’t get enough attention from fans and her bodyguard and the press and hangers-on and—”