leur came to a stop halfway up the circular staircase and smiled down at her guests. Assorted executives from the entertainment and publishing industries had shown up, along with enough famous faces to keep the reporters and photographers Will had invited happy. Michel had outdone himself with the long-sleeved ecru silk sheath he’d designed for her. The bodice shimmered with poppies picked out in tiny brown and tan beads. On Michel’s orders, she’d secured her hair in a low chignon at the back of her neck and speared it with a jeweled chopstick. The Glitter Baby was living up to her name.

The jazz quartet playing on the balcony came to the end of their number. The crowd gradually quieted and gazed up at her. She drew on her old acting lessons and pretended she did this sort of thing all the time.

“Welcome, everyone, to the official opening of Fleur Savagar and Associates, Celebrity Management.” Her guests applauded politely, but she spotted skepticism on more than a few faces. She introduced Will and David, then spoke enthusiastically of Simon’s band and Olivia Creighton’s new part on Dragon’s Bay. Finally she gestured for Michel to join her on the staircase.

“I’m very sad to announce that my talented brother, Michel Savagar, will be sharing his incredible designs with the world in November when he shows his first collection.” She’d caught the attention of the women in the crowd, and this time the applause was more vigorous. She pretended to frown at him. “Unfortunately that means I’ll no longer be his most important client.”

“You will always be most important to me,” he said, his accent heavier than normal, which would have made her laugh if she weren’t the one who’d suggested he emphasize his French roots.

The reporters furiously scribbled away in their notebooks as she announced the details of the showing. She thanked her guests for attending, the jazz quartet began playing again, and well-wishers surrounded Michel. She reached for a champagne flute as Kissy approached. “Good job, Fleurinda. You introduced all your clients except me.”

“I have other plans for you, my pet. As you very well know.”

Kissy pulled her gaze from a hunky music producer. “All Olivia Creighton wants to talk about is her new part on Dragon’s Bay. It’s only six episodes, and it’s not even a lead.”

“I’ll bet it will be when Olivia’s done with it.” Fleur took a sip of champagne. “The nighttime soaps are hot, and she’s perfect for television. I think she could be as big as Joan Collins.”

It had taken Fleur almost a month to convince the Dragon’s Bay producers to let Olivia audition, and then it took another few days to convince Olivia that being forced to audition was less demeaning than doing more condominium commercials. But as soon as the producers heard her read, they offered her the job. The money was unimpressive, but Fleur would fix that the next time around. Olivia’s mature, sexy beauty and confident bearing held a strong appeal to middle-aged women, and Fleur was betting all that would translate into higher ratings for the show.

The hunky music executive disappeared, and Kissy finally gave Fleur her full attention. “You look incredible tonight. A little intimidating.”

“Really? How?”

“Sort of like the ‘other woman’ in the movies. The sophisticated blond bitch-goddess who tries to steal the hero from the rosy-cheeked heroine.”

“Excellent.” A blond bitch-goddess didn’t have to worry about the little things in life. Or the big things—like Alexi Savagar trying to destroy her.

She’d told Kissy and Michel about the fire, but hadn’t yet mentioned Alexi’s involvement. From the moment Belinda had walked into the Orlani Gallery, Alexi had been playing a cat-and-mouse game. The missing invitations were bad enough, but this afternoon he’d gotten serious.

Kissy nudged her. “Have you been watching Michel and Simon?”

“Disappointing.” With his massive size and shaved head, Simon was the most noticeable man in the crowd to everyone but Michel.

“They both have such bad taste in men,” Kissy said. “I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that they haven’t paid any attention to each other.”

“That little twit Damon won’t leave Michel’s side.”

Kissy frowned. “Michel and Simon are terrific people. The temptation to do some matchmaking is almost irresistible.”

Fleur watched Michel laugh at something Damon said. “It’s none of our business.”

“I know you’re right.”

“Michel doesn’t butt into my personal life, and I owe him the same courtesy.”

“You’re a good sister.”

“So how about a small dinner party in a few weeks?”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

With that piece of business out of the way, Kissy surveyed the crowd. “Didn’t you tell me you invited Charlie Kincannon?” The inquiry seemed casual, but Fleur wasn’t fooled.

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you get the impression that he was coming?”

“I’m not sure. Haven’t you talked to him?”

“Not for a couple of weeks.”

“Problems?”

Kissy shrugged. “I guess he’s gay or something.”

“Just because a fabulous man ignores you doesn’t mean he’s gay.”

“He’s hardly fabulous.”

“Christie Brinkley seems to think so. I heard they were dating.” Lying to her best friend was a rotten thing to do, but Kissy refused to take Charlie seriously, and Fleur decided the end justified the means.

“Christie Brinkley! She has to be a foot taller than he is.”

“Charlie’s very self-confident behind his geeky and fabulously rich facade. I don’t think he worries too much about externals.”

“I really don’t care.” Kissy sniffed. “Besides, I’ve never found Christie all that attractive.”

“Yeah. What’s so great about perfect features and a magnificent body?”

“You think I deserve this, don’t you?”

“Oh yes.”

“I haven’t fallen for him, so get that smug look off your face. Charlie’s not interested in me that way. We’re friends.”

Will drew Fleur away to talk to a reporter before she could suggest that Kissy cut the crap. As she finished posing for photographers, she bumped into Shawn Howell, who definitely hadn’t been on her guest list. Shawn’s teen idol face wasn’t nearly as cute at thirty as it had been at twenty-two when Fleur had to endure the dates Belinda had arranged. Since then, his career had tanked, and he reportedly owed the IRS a quarter of a million dollars.

“Hello, gorgeous.” He bypassed her cheek for a direct shot at her mouth. His tongue flicked her bottom lip. “You don’t mind a couple of gate crashers at your party, do you?”

A strobe flashed next to them. “Apparently not.”

“Hey, it’s business, right?” He grinned and rubbed his hand down her spine like a high school boy checking for a bra. “I hear you’re in the market for clients, and I’m looking for a new agent, so maybe I’ll give you a try.”

“I don’t think we’re a good fit.” She started to slip past him, then stopped as a sense of dread swept through her. “What did you mean by ‘a couple of gate crashers’?”

“Belinda’s waiting in your office. She asked me to tell you.”

For a moment Fleur was tempted to leave her own party, but she didn’t run anymore, and this was something she couldn’t put off.

Belinda stood with her back to the door looking at a Louise Nevelson lithograph Fleur had bought with the profits from a delivery of palladium. As Fleur stared at the small, straight line of her mother’s spine, she felt a stab of yearning. She remembered how she used to throw herself into Belinda’s arms when her mother appeared at the front door of the couvent, how she’d bury her face in the crook of her neck. Belinda had been her only champion. She’d defended her against the nuns and told her she was the most wonderful girl in all the world.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Belinda said, still staring at the Nevelson. “I know you don’t want me here.”

Fleur went over to sit behind her desk, using its authority to protect herself from the flood of painful emotion that made her want to rush across the room and hold tight to the person she used to care about more than anyone. “Why did you come?”

Belinda turned. She wore a frilly ice-blue dress and satin French heels with pale blue ribbons that tied around her ankles. The outfit was too youthful for a forty-five-year-old woman, but it looked perfect on her. “I tried to stay away. Ever since I saw the white roses that night at the Orlani…But I couldn’t manage it any longer.”

“What did the roses mean to you?”

Belinda fumbled with the jeweled clasp on her evening bag and reached inside for a cigarette. “You should never have destroyed the Royale.” She pulled out a gold lighter and flicked it with unsteady fingers. “Alexi hates you.”

“I don’t care.” Fleur hated the catch in her voice. “Alexi means nothing to me.”

“1 wanted to tell you,” Belinda said softly. “You’ll never know how many times I wanted to tell you about your real father.” With a faraway look in her eyes, she gazed across the office. “We lived together for three months at the Garden of Allah. Errol Flynn was a great star, Fleur. An immortal. You look so much like him.”

Fleur brought her hand down on the desk. “How could you lie to me? All those years! Why couldn’t you have told me the truth instead of letting me wonder why my father sent me away?”

“Because I didn’t want to hurt you, baby.”

“Your lies hurt more than the truth ever could. All that time I thought it was my fault that Alexi banished me from the family.”

“But, baby, if I’d told you the truth, you would have hated me.”

Her mother looked fragile and helpless, and Fleur couldn’t stand to hear any more. She fought for control. “Why did Alexi send you to me? I know he did.”

Belinda gave a soft, nervous laugh. “Because he thinks I’m no good for you. Isn’t that silly, baby? When I saw the roses that night at the gallery, I understood he wanted me to go to you. That’s why I’ve been staying away.”

“Until tonight.”

“I couldn’t manage it any longer. I had to see if we could start over. I miss you so much, baby.”

Fleur held herself stiffly and stared at Belinda. Gradually her mother wilted. “I’ll go now. Watch out for Alexi.” She walked to the door. “And remember. I never meant to cause you hurt. I love you too much.”

Even after all this time, Belinda still didn’t understand that what she’d done was wrong. Fleur gripped the edge of her desk. “You pimped me.”

Belinda looked confused. “The man was Jake Koranda, baby. I would never have given you to anyone else.” She hesitated for a moment and then slipped out the door.

Fleur was exhausted by the time the last of her guests left, but the open house had been a huge success, worth every tired muscle. She slipped into the front hallway and passed through the door that led to her private living quarters in the back of the house. She smelled the eucalyptus she’d piled in wicker baskets, the only decorating touch her bank account permitted for now. Walking into the living room, she flicked on the lights, then collapsed on her secondhand couch. A fringed paisley shawl only marginally disguised its shabbiness, but the peaceful room began to soothe the jagged edges of her tension.

The two-story expanse of metal-paned windows in front of her had come from an old New England textile mill. Through them she saw her small, sunken garden with its lacework of tree branches. Pyracantha bearing bright orange berries climbed the high brick walls. Someday this nearly empty room would be a true haven. She imagined a warm combination of rich walnut furniture, cozy rugs, and antique tables topped with flowers.

The second-floor living room was an open loft fronted by a railing. Fleur wandered over to the railing in her stocking feet. She gazed down the expanse of industrial windows to the kitchen and dining area below. The weathered brick floor held the antique cherry harvest table Michel had given her as a housewarming gift. Now it was surrounded with mismatched chairs, but someday she’d own beautiful old ladder-backs and nubby hand-woven rugs.

She flicked off the living room lights and made her way to her bedroom. On the way, she unzipped her dress and stepped out of it. Wearing her bra and a pair of tap pants, she walked across her bare bedroom floor to her closet. The most beautiful couture wardrobe in New York was stashed away in a bedroom with only a secondhand chest of drawers, a creaky chair, and a double bed missing a headboard. She switched on the closet light and hung up her dress. While she gazed at the array of beautiful clothes Michel had made for her, she took the pins from her hair. As she shook it out, something in the periphery of her vision caught her eye. She gasped and spun around.

Jake lay asleep on her bed.

He lifted his arm and covered his eyes. “Do you have to make so much noise?”

The jeweled hair ornaments fell from her fingers. She stalked over to the bed, her hair flying. “What are you doing here? Get out! How did you get in? I swear—”

“Your secretary let me in.” He yawned. “She thinks I’m a better actor than Bobby De Niro.”

“You’re not. All you know how to do is snarl and squint.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “And you had no right to turn your cheap charm loose on my secretary.” First the basement fire, then Belinda, and now this. She kicked the mattress. “Out of here! This is my house.”

He flipped on the bedside light, and her body—the same body that refused to wake up for any of the men she dated—stirred to life. Although he’d shaved his mustache and cut his hair since the beach party, Jake didn’t look any more civilized. He looked rough and male and infinitely desirable.

He rested his weight on his elbow and performed his own inspection, which reminded her she was standing before him in a vanilla demi-bra and matching satin tap pants. He rubbed the corner of his mouth. “Does all your underwear look like that?”

“Except for my Strawberry Shortcake panties. Now haul your ass out of my bed.”

“Could you maybe put on a robe? Something flannel that smells like bacon grease.”

“No.”

He sat up and dropped his rangy legs over the side of the bed. “I understand you’re pissed I didn’t make your party, but parties aren’t my scene. Still, it was nice of you to invite me.”

“I didn’t invite you.” Will must have. She snatched up her robe from a chair next to the bed and shoved her arms into the sleeves.

Jake’s eyes slid over her. “Is it too late to change my mind about the bacon grease?”

She remembered what Kissy had said about the cool, blond bitch-goddess. She crossed her arms over her breasts and tried to look the part. “What do you want?”

“I’ve got a business deal for you, but you don’t seem to be in the mood to talk.” He rose and stretched. “We can discuss it in the morning while you fix me breakfast.”

“What kind of business deal?”

“In the morning. Where do you want me to sleep?”

“On a park bench.”

He sat back on her bed. “Thanks, this’ll be just fine. Nice, firm mattress.”

She gave him her coldest stare and tried to figure out how to handle this. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t ignore his comment about a business deal, and he obviously wasn’t saying any more tonight. “Take the room at the end of the hall,” she snapped. “The bed’s too short for you and the mattress is lumpy, but if you bang on the wall, the rats will hardly bother you.”

“Are you sure you’re not going to be lonesome in here by yourself?”

“Oh no. I’m looking forward to sleeping alone for a change.”

His eyes narrowed. “Sorry to spoil your track record.”

She smiled. “It’s okay. A girl needs a little beauty rest now and then.”

That shut him up, and he left her alone.

She stomped into the bathroom and turned on the water to wash her face. What kind of business deal did he have in mind? Was it possible he wanted her to represent him? The idea made her queasy. Jake Koranda’s name on her client roster would give her instant credibility. Just like that, all her worries about the future of her agency would disappear.

She brought herself back to reality. An established superstar would hardly turn himself over to new management just because that new management happened to be an old lover. Unless he felt guilty and wanted to make it up to her.

Highly unlikely. She rinsed her face and reached for a hand towel. Still…if she could land Jake, she’d have taken a giant step toward making Fleur Savagar and Associates the gold standard for celebrity management.

The bravest, the fastest, the strongest…

She awakened late the next morning to the smell of freshly brewed coffee drifting up from the kitchen. She pulled on her oldest pair of athletic gray warm-ups and fastened her hair into a ponytail. When she reached the kitchen, she found Jake sitting at the harvest table, his legs stretched in front of him as he drank a cup of coffee. She went to the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of orange juice. She had to play this just right. “I’ll make the toast if you make the eggs,” she said.

“Are you sure you can handle the responsibility? As I remember, cooking isn’t your strong point.”

“Which is why you’re making the eggs.” She pulled out a carton and set it on the counter for him along with a stainless steel bowl. Then she grabbed a grapefruit, dropped it on the cutting board, and severed it with one sharp thwack.

“Careful there.”

“I’m practicing for bigger and better things.” She gestured toward a bottom drawer. “If Bird Dog needs an apron, he can find one in there. Ignore the pink ruffle.”

“You’re all heart.”

Neither of them spoke again until they were settled across from each other at the harvest table. She could barely swallow her toast. In the clear light of a new day, the notion that he might sign with her seemed even more far-fetched, but she had to know for sure. She took a sip of coffee. “Don’t you have an incredibly expensive house somewhere in the Village?”

“Yeah, but too many people bother me there, so I sometimes disappear. That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. Can we work something out with your attic?”

“My attic?”

“Your office manager showed it to me last night when she was giving me the tour. It’s a great space—private, self-contained. I need a place where I can hide out for a while and work. A place no one will think to look for me.”

She couldn’t believe it. Jake didn’t want her as an agent. He wanted a landlady! Disappointment choked her. She threw down her napkin. “Are you so used to people kissing your butt that you think I’ll do it, too?” She rose from her chair and pointed toward the door. “You’re not living in my house. Ever. Now get out. I’m sick of looking at you.”

He swiped at his plate with a triangle of toast. “I’m going to take that as a definite maybe.”

“Don’t even try to be cute. You’ve—”

“Let me finish. I told you last night that I had a business deal. Sit down and eat those excellent scrambled eggs while we talk about it.”

She sat down, but she didn’t touch her eggs.

He pushed his plate back and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I can’t keep going on like this. The Caliber picture’s done, and I’m taking six months off so I can start writing again. If I don’t work this thing through now, I never will. I want you to represent me.”

She couldn’t believe she’d heard him right. He wanted her to be his agent? Her spirits soared. Their past relationship would make this the most difficult challenge she could possibly face, but she was tough enough to handle it. She struggled to pull herself together. “I’d be glad to represent you. I know I can make your life easier. As you might have heard, I’m offering total celebrity management to an elite group of clients. I can handle all your business and legal affairs, negotiate film deals, take care of publicity—”

He waved her off. “I have good people doing all that.”

She went absolutely still. “Then exactly what are you offering me?”

“I want you to handle everything I write.”

She stared at him. “Big deal.”

“If you want my name on your client roster, this is the way to get it.”

“You haven’t written anything since Eclipse!” She wanted to scream. “Your name as a writer on my client roster won’t get me anything but snickers.” She snatched up her plate and took it to the sink.

“You’re the one who blocked me, kiddo. Now all you have to do is unblock me.”

The plate broke as she set it down too hard. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“The problem started when you came along.”

“That’s no answer.”

His chair scraped the floor. “It’s all the answer you’re going to get.”

She didn’t even try to hide her animosity. “And how am I supposed to unblock you? On my back?”

“If that’s what works for you.”

Before she could take a swing at him, he detoured toward the coffeepot. “I need some help working through the block. Whatever went wrong happened when we were making Eclipse.”

She threw the broken plate into the trash. “You don’t have to write. You sure don’t need the money.”

“Writing is what I do, Flower. Acting is satisfying, and it’s made me rich, but it’s writing that lets me breathe.” He turned away, as if confessing even that small amount compromised him. “I won’t be living in your pocket. All I want is privacy. And I don’t need to tell you that if I start writing again, your agency will pick up a fat piece of change.”

“That’s a big ‘if.’ And why do you have to write in my house?”

He shrugged off her question. “I just do.”

The same old Jake. He dangled little pieces of himself in front of her, then snatched them back before she could get a good look. But even as a dozen venomous thoughts raced through her mind, she knew he’d boxed her in. She had to take the chance, despite the risks she could see all too clearly. If only she hadn’t planted the stories about the two of them…She imagined people’s smirks if word got out that she’d committed herself to representing a writer who didn’t write anymore. Everyone would say that Jake was only letting her use his name because they were sleeping together. They’d point out that he didn’t trust her to handle his film deals, just a writing career that had gone sour years ago. She’d look like a woman trying to build a business from her bedroom.

But what if she could get him to start writing again? What if she could break through that block and get him to produce another Koranda play? She wouldn’t have to worry about gossip then, or about her money running out. It was a gamble she couldn’t pass up. At the same time, she had to make sure she wouldn’t be paying a personal price for once again getting involved with the man who’d hurt her so badly.

The gossip began two days later, but not about Jake. On Monday afternoon as Fleur was about to leave the office to have lunch with a talented new singer she hoped to woo, she received a phone call from a network vice-president she’d gotten to known.

“There’s some gossip floating around I think you should hear about,” he said. “Somebody’s going out of their way to remind people of those broken modeling contracts you left behind when you fled the country.”

She rubbed her eyes and tried to sound unconcerned. “That’s old news. Isn’t there anything better to gossip about?”

“It’s lousy PR for a woman trying to start a business based on client trust.”

He didn’t need to spell it out for her. The implication was clear. If she’d broken contracts before, she’d do it again. She could think of only one reason for those stories to resurface now. Alexi had made his next move.

The young singer didn’t show up for lunch, a message Fleur had no trouble interpreting. She got back to the office in time to take a call from Olivia Creighton.

“I’ve been hearing some terrible stories about you, Fleur. I’m sure none of them are true, and you know how I adore you, but after what happened with poor Doris Day and all her money, a woman can’t be too careful. I’m not comfortable with instability.”

“Of course not.” Fleur thought of the six antique Baccarat goblets and case of Pouilly Fuissé Olivia had sent her just the week before to celebrate her contract for Dragon’s Bay. Now the celebration was over. She made a lunch date for Olivia to meet David Bennis With his leather elbow patches and his smelly pipe, he radiated stability better than anyone, and Fleur hoped he could reassure Olivia, but as she headed for David’s office, she didn’t like the feeling that she was once again using someone else to solve her problems.

Later that day, she found Michel in the second floor of a converted factory in Astoria, where weary seamstresses were working on the garments for his collection. He had less than seven weeks left, and he was exhausted from the strain of trying to get everything together so quickly. She wished she didn’t have to add to his worries, but she couldn’t postpone telling him what was happening any longer. By now, Alexi understood exactly how important the success of Michel’s collection was to her, and she didn’t need a crystal ball to figure out where he’d try to strike next.

Michel straightened the scarf she’d tied at the neck of her white cashmere sheath. He had to reach up to do it because she was wearing the stiletto heels that were a standard part of her business wardrobe ever since she’d realized her height sometimes worked to her advantage. She told him about the missing invitations and the fire. Michel listened in silence. When she got to the end, she squeezed his arm. “As of tonight, I’m putting this workroom under twenty-four-hour guard.”

He looked physically ill. “Do you really think he’ll go after the samples?”

“I’m sure of it. Destroying the samples before you can show them is the way he can do the most damage.”

He gazed around the workroom. “If we make it through this, there’ll be something else.”

“I know.” She rubbed her cheek. “Let’s hope he gets bored. There’s not much else we can do.”

Jake settled into the attic a few days after the party, but he didn’t spend much time there the first week, opting instead to stay in his townhouse in the Village and attend rehearsals of a revival of one of his older plays. Once Fleur heard his footsteps late at night as she fell asleep. Two days later, she heard the sound of water running, but she never heard a typewriter.

To her consternation, word immediately got out that she’d be representing Jake’s so far nonexistent future literary endeavors. The last thing anyone in his West Coast office wanted was for her to succeed at what they hadn’t been able to accomplish, and she suspected they were responsible for the leak. That, coupled with continued stories about her broken modeling contracts, was chipping away at the small amount of credibility she’d been able to build up. A well-established actor and rising young writer she’d been close to signing both backed off, and Olivia was getting increasingly skittish.

As the second week of October arrived, Jake began spending more nights in the attic apartment, but Fleur never saw him and never once heard the sound of a typewriter. Acting on the theory that exercise improves creativity and would, at the least, get him out of bed in the morning, she started pushing notes under his door inviting him to join her on her daily run. One crisp fall morning, three weeks after they’d sealed their deal, she came outside to find him sitting on the front step waiting for her.

He wore a gray UCLA sweatshirt, navy sweatpants, and beat-up Adidas. As he spotted her, his pouty bottom lip curled in a smile, and her heart gave an alarming hiccup. When she was a kid, just the sight of him had made her melt, but all he meant to her now was a business deal, and she’d never let him get to her like that again. She took the three front steps in one leap and ran past him.

“You never heard of warming up?” he called out from behind her.

“Don’t need it. I’m already hot.” She looked back over her shoulder. “Think you can keep up with me, cowboy?”

“Ain’t met a woman yet who could outrun me,” he replied, all full of sagebrush and buffalo chips.

“I don’t know about that. Seems to me you’ve been living a pretty indolent life.”

He drew up next to her. “Playing basketball three afternoons a week with a bunch of inner city teenagers who call me ‘mister’ isn’t exactly taking it easy.”

She sidestepped a muddy puddle and headed west, toward Central Park. “I’m surprised you can keep up at your advanced age.”

“I can’t. My knees are shot, and I can’t jump anymore, so I usually get pulled from the game before the third quarter is over. They only put up with me because I bought the uniforms.”

As they slipped around a delivery truck blocking the sidewalk, Fleur thought about how much she liked Jake’s self-deprecating sense of humor. Next to his body, it was the best thing about him. His body and his no-nonsense masculinity. And his face. She loved his face. What she didn’t love was his manipulative behavior and two-bit morality. He’d taken her to the mountaintop, then shoved her off. But she couldn’t keep rehashing the past. She had a job to do, and she’d left him alone long enough. “I haven’t noticed a typewriter banging away over my head since you moved in.”

“Don’t push me, okay?” His face closed up.

She thought for a moment and decided to take a risk. “I’m having a dinner party on Saturday night. Why don’t you come?” She’d was just getting around to throwing the party she and Kissy had discussed at the open house, the one that would allow Michel and Simon to get to know each other. Being among congenial people might be a good first step toward loosening Jake up. And the others would entertain him so she wouldn’t have to.

“Sorry, Flower, but formal dinner parties aren’t my thing.”

“It’s not exactly formal. The guests cook. It’ll just be Michel, Simon Kale, and Kissy. I invited Charlie Kincannon, but he’s going to be out of town.”

“Do you really know somebody named Kissy?”

“I guess you didn’t meet her at Charlie’s beach party. She’s my best friend. Although…” She hesitated. “It might be best not to walk into any dark rooms with her.”

“An interesting comment to make about a friend. Care to explain?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” They shot past a woman walking a pair of Chihuahuas. “Pick up the pace. One of us has to work today.”

They ran for a while without talking. Finally Jake looked over at her. “My publicist sent me some press clippings I just got around to reading. You and I were a pretty hot item in the New York gossip columns at the end of the summer.”

“Really?” Those columns had appeared more than two months ago. She’d wondered when he’d get around to mentioning them.

“You’re not a good enough actress to pull off the innocent act.”

“Sure I am.”

He reached out and caught her arm, pulling her to a stop. “You planted those stories.”

“I needed the publicity.”

His chest rose and fell under his T-shirt as he steadied his breathing. “You know how I feel about my privacy.”

“Technically I didn’t violate your privacy since none of the stories were true.”

He didn’t crack a smile. “I don’t like cheap tricks.”

“That’s funny. I thought you invented them.”

His mouth tightened in an unfriendly line. “Keep my name out of the newspapers, Fleur. Consider this your only warning.” He turned away and took off across the street.

“I’m not your publicist, remember?” she called out after him. “All I represent is your pathetic literary career.”

He picked up his pace and didn’t look back.