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Midnight Resolutions
Kathleen O'Reilly


When a stunner of a woman plants a sizzling kiss on him in the middle of Times Square on an icy New Year’s Eve, Ian’s world explodes…Shaken to the tips of her designer shoes, Rose Hildebrande senses something in Ian that inspires her to find him and seduce him. But will their naughty fling still be blazing come summer?









About the Author


First published in 2001, KATHLEEN O’REILLY is an award-winning author of more than twenty romances, with more books on the way. Reviewers have been lavish in their praise, applauding her “biting humor,” “amazing storytelling” and “sparkling characters.” She lives in New York with her husband, two children and one indestructible goldfish. Please contact the author at kathleenoreilly@earthlink.net or by mail at PO Box 312, Nyack, NY 10960, USA.


Dear Reader,



A while back I noticed a trend in my stories. Unexpected love, unexpected places. My editor suggested a trilogy, and the Blaze


senior editor came up with a grand title for it: WHERE YOU LEAST EXPECT IT.

In the first book, Hot Under Pressure, the characters meet on a crazy airplane flight. For Midnight Resolutions I focused on New Year’s Eve.

When I came up with the idea of a magical kiss on New Year’s, I knew I wanted to create two characters who needed to start over. It was only a matter of figuring out the why. With Ian and Rose, I found those two people. There was Ian, who knew what he needed to do, and was already on his journey. And then there was Rose, who didn’t have a clue…until she started to fall in love.



I hope you enjoy the story, and I hope your 2011 is bright, joyous and full of new beginnings.



Look for the next WHERE YOU LEAST EXPECT IT book soon. There’s this lake, and this hero who wants to be left alone…



Best wishes for the New Year!



Kathleen O’Reilly




Midnight Resolutions

Kathleen O’Reilly





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover (#u32a42071-99a4-5982-b514-9a282055aa9d)

About the Author (#uee313ede-0983-57f0-9980-392bc96bea7d)

Title Page (#u4f65facd-781b-592e-a9f5-f2ecc4e67975)

Chapter One (#uae9d8403-a0cc-5f30-8395-d82ac72c04a5)

Chapter Two (#u211cd567-a481-5d31-aff3-06a5cf96b7ba)

Chapter Three (#u1a65c13b-37dd-541f-b194-e5bae6a320f9)

Chapter Four (#u69c623f6-a712-59ef-9b12-ddae647a42e8)

Chapter Five (#uc89ed42e-7b20-5451-8cfa-b373a9eb806a)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


NEW YEAR’S EVE IN TIMES SQUARE. Ian Cumberland was done dwelling on last year’s miseries. Tonight was about new resolutions, new hopes, new opportunities. Cheerfully he stuffed his hands in his pockets and inhaled the crisp, seventeen-degree air. It was nearly midnight, and he was primed for the winds of change to blast open new doors. The neon carnival that was Times Square had seemed the ideal location—apparently it was also the ideal place for another two million huddled masses. They were huddled because those winds of change were blowing from the north at approximately thirty-five miles per hour. And not that he wanted to complain, but okay, those winds were freaking cold.

Noisemakers and plastic horns bleated in the air, riding over the upbeat tempo of the latest and greatest boy-band—greatest, that is, until they hit puberty or got involved in the latest sex scandal, whichever came first. No—no negativity. Not tonight.

Determined to make this work, Ian gave his senses free rein, marveling at all the tiny details he’d overlooked before. Ear-blasting sounds, a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors and a melting pot of smells. He took a deep breath of New York air—a million divergent perfumes, roasted chestnuts and strangely enough, honeysuckle.

Over the past year, he’d divided his life into two distinct periods. Prelayoff and postlayoff. Prelayoff ended precisely at 4:30 p.m. on February seventeenth. Then, Ian didn’t have the time to waste twelve hours standing around Times Square waiting for a giant multicolored orb to fall from the sky. Postlayoff, he still didn’t have the time, but now he had the will.

New Year’s at Times Square had been on his list of life to-dos since he was ten, waiting to be checked off. Prelayoff, he didn’t worry much about getting to Times Square. Postlayoff, he realized that life was not cooperative and orderly, and when you got the chance to have a once-in-a-lifetime moment, you just did it.

The night’s crowd was packed shoulder to shoulder. It was impossible to move, nearly impossible to breathe, and he found himself sharing the uncomfortably close personal space of a large group of awestruck foreigners who didn’t understand the common English vernacular: “You’re standing on my foot. Please move.”

As he took in the trolling lights and squinty-eyed police and happy, perky people, Ian waited patiently for something miraculous, something life-altering, something hopeful. But all he got was a trampled foot and a deafening horn in his ear.

Still he waited, colder, sober, and now thinking that perhaps he’d been a little wiser prelayoff when he had avoided Times Square like the plague.

Hell. On what planet had he actually thought this was a good idea? It didn’t matter that it was New Year’s Eve, Times Square, nearly midnight. In the end, he wasn’t an investment banker anymore; he was an employment counselor, and a lunatic one at that.

Beckett had told him it was stupid. Told him that nobody froze their ass off in New York in January when they could stay home and have a decent party, guzzle champagne and watch the ball drop from the confines of a well-insulated apartment. And of course, it was at that moment that Ian had looked his best friend square in the eye and launched into his winds of change spiel: new beginnings, living life—doing it right.

And there, crushed amidst two million other cockeyed optimists, he felt a killer wind shoot through him, the truth dawning with frigid clarity.

Ian was a sap. Time to pack in the New Year, accept what he had and trudge onward. Life was what it was, and nothing—not even a few mind-shattering hours in the center of the universe—was going to change it.

Feeling all sorts of foolish, he turned, starting toward the relative tranquility of the subway, because somewhere out there, his sanity and his friends were waiting. Before he managed another step, a pull at his arm knocked him off balance. Ian whirled, prepared to tell the jerkwad—foreign relations be damned—to quit touching him. But then he stopped—

Stared.

Gawked, actually.

Gorgeous.

She was honeysuckle in the flesh. She looked like it, smelled like it and damn, he wanted to know if she tasted like it, as well. His body shocked to life, filled, throbbed.

Hello, winds of change.

Watercolor-blue eyes were panicked and filled with worry. Warm, tawny hair streaked with gold spilled from her knitted cap.

“Have you seen my phone? I can’t find my phone. Help me find my phone. Oh, God. I lost my phone.”

Her voice was soft and tense against the noise of the crowd. She was searching for her phone. Help her.

“Where’d you lose it?” he asked, raising the volume, noticing the beefy tourist sizing her up with beady eyes.

“On the ground. I dropped it and I really need to find it. I shouldn’t be here. It’s a complete zoo. Why did I come here?”

To meet me, thought Ian, a stupid, romantic thought, right up there with his winds of change spiel. Ian grinned, a foolish, romantic grin, but he couldn’t help himself. “We’ll find it,” he offered, and bent to the ground. She hesitated, her eyes wisely fearful, but then she bent, too, testing the restraint of millions of drunken partygoers, probably taking her life in her own hands, yet still trusting him.

At ground level it was like being underwater, swimming against the tide of directionally challenged fish. The dim light was diffused by shifting legs and restless feet and a continuous swirl of coats. Her hands grabbed for the edge of his sleeve, her eyes terrified. “You okay?” he asked, and she nodded once, but still he worried.

“We’ll find it,” he assured her again, keeping one hand tied to hers. With the other, he searched for what had to be the most important phone in the world.

“I can’t believe I lost it,” she chattered, the words tumbling out in a panic. “I can’t believe I screwed up. I’m not careless. I can’t be careless. I won’t be careless.” A clumsy set of legs bumped into her, and she jumped, flying closer to him.

“Don’t get crazy. It’s got to be here somewhere,” he soothed, heroically gathering her closer, trying to find her phone, trying to keep her from being flattened, all the while warning himself that just because a beautiful woman stumbled into his arms, it did not mean the winds of change had finally blown his way.

Blindly he groped the rough asphalt. His hand got stomped on twice, but apparently the gods actually owed Ian something good this year and apparently Frank Capra wasn’t dead in spirit—because at that moment Ian’s fingers latched on to plastic. Rectangular, sturdy, magical plastic.

“Got it,” he yelled, quickly pulling her upright before they were both trampled to death—which never happened in Frank Capra movies.

The flashing neon signs lit up the jittery alarm in her eyes, and he pulled her to him, instinct more than reason. “It’s okay. It’s here,” he said, feeling the tremors run through her, absorbing them into himself. “It’s a phone,” he murmured, whispering against her hair. “It’s only a phone. Don’t cry.”

“Don’t like the crowd,” she muttered, her face buried in his shoulder.

“You picked the wrong place to figure that out.” He was relieved to hear her awkward laugh, and decided that holding a beautiful crowd-o-phobic was worth a layoff, worth being labeled a sap.

In the end, Ian had been right. New hopes. New opportunities, and they all smelled like honeysuckle.

He stroked the back of her woolen coat, feeling the slow ease of her shivering. It didn’t take her long, and he knew the exact moment when she stiffened, her chin lifted and the fear had passed. “I’m not crying. I don’t cry,” she told him, her voice a lot firmer than before.

Then she gazed at him—her eyes dry, and more focused than before. “I’m not crying,” she repeated. “Thank you. This was stupid. I’m sorry. I don’t like being stupid.”

Her profile seemed so fragile, so oddly out of place in the chaos of the crowd, the lights and the noise. Her face was thin, delicate, a medieval maiden out of a fairy tale. Yet there were hollow shadows in her eyes, shadows that didn’t belong with such beauty. It took more than a lost phone to cast shadows like that. Gently he tracked her cheek, pretending to wipe at nonexistent tears, only wanting to touch the golden rose of her skin.

“You’re not being stupid. Everything’s fine now. Everything’s perfect now,” he said, watching as the control eased back into her face.

“Thank you for finding my phone.”

He casually shrugged off her gratitude, knowing the night was young, the year was young. What was a job, anyway? What was financial security? Totally oversold. In the big scheme of life, could anything compare to that world-by-the-tail feeling of her dreamy eyes looking at him as if he was a hero—and not just any hero, but her hero?

“It’s nothing. You’re okay now?” he asked, leaning in to be heard over the crowd. Oh, yeah, right.

“Sorry. I never fall apart,” she answered, her head close to his, so close he could make out the carefully concealed freckles on her nose.

“Don’t apologize. I fall apart on a regular basis.”

She glanced at him oddly. “I was joking,” he told her, and cursed himself for being a blockhead. There was something in her face, in her moon-kissed gaze, that held him fast. Hidden behind the composure, he could see a child’s curiosity peering out.

Her mouth curved up, a pink Cupid’s bow that touched him somewhere near his heart.

Right then, one of the tourists jammed her into him, and she started at the movement, until he pulled her close again, fast adjusting to the heady feel of her in his arms.

“I shouldn’t have come here tonight. I thought I could do this.”

“I know, a bunch of idiots who think New Year’s Eve is a night for new dreams. What a bunch of dorks. I should have been home guzzling champagne instead of freezing my…Never mind.” Once again he felt her muffled giggle and decided he didn’t mind being a blockhead, didn’t mind being a fool. To hear her hesitant laugh, to fit those lush curves to his body, to have her hair brush against his face.

After a moment, she raised her head and carefully studied him. “You ever do this before?”

“Nope. You?”

“Never again,” she answered firmly.

Apparently God was still watching, Frank was still filming and the winds of change were definitely on the move because suddenly, miraculously, the crowd began to count.

Thirty-three. Thirty-two. Thirty-one.

Her eyes glowed bright, the muted blue heating to liquid, trapping him there. Her hands locked to his lapel, as if she’d never let go. The air began to arc between them, almost visible, coiling and floating like warm breath in the chilled night.

New life. New love. New year.

Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.

Totally entranced, Ian slid his right hand behind her neck, twining it in her hair with a lingering sigh. Her lips touched his even before he asked, even before he begged. Soft, sweet, and tasting like a new beginning.

When the crowd jostled her closer, Ian didn’t complain, his left hand riding under her coat, finding the glorious skin of her back, the inviting curve of her waist. Around them, the world blew by, showers of confetti, bursts of cold wind and the joyous shouts of millions of not-quite-sober partiers. Ian ignored them all, because in the midst of these millions, it was only he and this woman, and the rest of their life.

Her generous mouth opened, her tongue merged with his, coaxing, seducing. Oh, yes, he was so seduced, no coaxing necessary. His nerves fired, pulsing with life, pulsing with ideas that were older than time. He would take her home. He would make love to her. He would marry her. It was the Frank Capra way.

Impulsive arms locked around his neck, burying her fingers in his hair. He could feel the insistent touch of her restless hands. Against his greedy mouth, she moaned. Music. Bells. Chimes. Somewhere he’d died and was kissing an angel.

His hand slipped lower, pressing her against him, soft to hard. Her hips curled into him, her thigh rocking between his. His eyes crossed. Nope. No angel. They didn’t have moves like that in heaven.

An irritant vibrated against his leg—not his cock, nor his pulse, which were both buzzing in their own overjoyed condition. She broke away, her breathing heavy, then lifted the phone, the exact phone he’d found for her only moments before. Which, if he had not found, she would not be talking into. No, they would still be kissing. Man, he was such a stupid dweeb.

Next to them, one of the tourists shot him a look of male approval, but Ian ignored it, trying to restart his brain. Here was the inspiration he’d been seeking.

As she talked, her gaze scanned the length of his cashmere coat. For the first time, he could see that elusive recognition flicker in her eyes—seeing him as a man who was worthy—financially viable. Possibly insecure, but there it was. Maybe the male code had some unwritten law saying it was cowardly to trade on his past life, but did geeky Clark Kent ever want to throw open his jacket, exposing the all-powerful S? Hell, yeah.

The shouts of the crowd fell away. Only her words touched his ears. She was talking, trying to reconnect with her date. Date? No!

Ian wanted to yell at her to hang up because this was kismet, karma, and the entire outcome of his postlay off life rested upon this one moment—no pressure. Instead, he kept his mouth shut, a confident grin plastered on his face as if this didn’t mean a damn thing.

When she looked at Ian again, the soft blue eyes were so lonely and sad. He wondered if she had sensed the pull, too. Ian had never felt it before, never met a woman who stepped out of his dreams and into his arms. It should have been fate.

“I’m over here,” she said into the phone, waving a graceful hand in the air for someone other than Ian. Other than Ian. He wanted to stop her because she couldn’t be with someone else. This was a new year. New opportunities. New loves…

“I have to go. He’s my date,” she apologized, dashing the final vestiges of his hope to the ground much like last year’s sodden confetti.

“No surprise there,” answered Ian, his voice faux cheerful. “Have a good year.” Have a nice life.

One heartbeat later, her expression turned to the well-mannered smile given to a stranger on the street. Without another word, she politely asked her beefy neighbor to move out of the way, and then she moved out of Ian’s life.

All before he’d even gotten her name.

The winds of change blew cold and heartless, and Ian stomped on Hans’s foot, hard—international-incident hard—and Ian was gratified when the giant oaf muttered something in another language that probably involved mothers and copulation, not that he cared. Tourism was overrated anyway.

As he made his way home, Ian looked back at the ball that was glittering like a fallen star, making outrageous promises it wasn’t going to keep.

Happy New Year.

In a crowd of two million, Ian had never felt so alone.

Damn.




Chapter Two


12:41 a.m.

ROSE HILDEBRANDE WANTED TO wind back the clock to last year, when Remy wasn’t sipping his champagne and discussing in elaborate detail his latest performance in the operating room.

Rose wanted to return to that unforgettable instant when the stranger had been kissing her with such desperate need, as if he couldn’t get enough of her. As if with one kiss, he had found something golden and fleeting inside her. Romance—that was what they called it.

The people, the crowds, the fear. Everything had been a black, paralyzing blur—except for the feel of that strong body holding her tight. Not to punish, no, it was protection.

On a normal day, Rose knew exactly when she wanted to be touched, when people expected it and how she was supposed to react. That blood-pounding, swept-away sensation should have terrified her. But it was tempered by something new. Something almost…warm.

Quickly she shook off the weakness. Control. Always in control.

Now, sitting in the lobby of the Four Seasons with New York’s crème de la crème, her blood was neatly congealing back to its more reserved state. Her date for the night, world-renown pediatric cardiology surgeon Dr. Remy Sinclair, was cheerfully describing his day. The rest of the universe was planning a celebration, and Remy was slaving over the operating table, saving the lives of small children. Heroic, handsome, charming and rich. The man had zero flaws.

So, why was Rose merely nodding at suitable intervals with a polite bob of her head, while her mind clicked back to that dazzling feeling inspired by one exquisitely hard, hungry mouth? No, she thought, pushing the dazzle aside. More hocus-pocus that had no basis in anything real.

Idly, she shuttered her lashes, an indication of perhaps not actually listening, but a sincere pretense of it.

It was a look she’d perfected by the age of six, when Rose had been primped, painted, powdered and coiffed, and then ordered to skip down the charm school runway with bubbly poise and a lollipop smile. Her parents had had big dreams for her—beauty pageants, charm school, marrying well. Rose Hilde-brande’s heart-shaped little face was their ticket to a better life, and Rose had quickly learned to fall in line. There was no little girl better at perfection, a concrete diamond mined from the worst of hell.

The suffocating blackness filled her, but she took a long, purging breath. This was safe. This was good, and Remy was everything she had always dreamed of. He was a fourth-generation Sinclair, heir to the Sinclair fortune, in case being a heart surgeon wasn’t secure enough. And there was something princely about him—a chiseled profile, the Roman nose. His dark hair was carelessly brushed back from his face. The dove-gray suit was tailored perfectly to show sculpted shoulders and a tapered torso.

Best of all, the man was on the wrong side of thirty and trolling for a wife. A beautiful blonde to hang up on his wall along with his summa cum laude diploma from Columbia, his medical license from the State of New York and the live-action photo of the impala he’d seen on his last safari in Tanzania.

“Have you thought about the auction?” she asked, shifting the conversation from surgery toward a more stomach-surviving topic. She had promised the countess she’d deliver, and it was a promise Rose intended to keep. Sylvia was her boss and her friend; Rose owed her a lot more than a charity auction.

“Yes, I’ve thought. The answer is no.”

“Please,” she asked, not blaming him for saying no, but still determined to change his mind. It was demeaning, it was embarrassing, but truly, there was no more perfect bachelor in the entire tri-state region.

“No.” Those princelike eyes were firm, but Rose was undeterred.

“Think of the puppies, those little fluff balls that need a good home. You can’t be that heartless.”

“I’m a heart surgeon. I replace hearts on a daily basis. I don’t fear heartlessness like ordinary mortals without a god complex.”

They were more alike than he would ever suspect. He saw her as the ideal, the perfect woman, and she never let him see behind the flawless mask to the person that was missing both a heart and a soul. Very rarely did she dwell on that loss, except on a starry night like this one. When a sexy stranger had appeared like magic, a Prince Charming coming to sweep her away to someplace quiet and glorious and decadently warm. Oh, yeah, right, next thing you know, you’re flossing your teeth with a diamond-studded tiara perched on your head. Rose lifted a hand to her hair, just to check. All clear. No, if Rose wanted her happy ending, she was going to have to work for it.

“Would you do it for me?” she asked in her best, most earnest voice. This was only their fourth date, so really it was too soon to ask things from him. Still…Their relationship was a battle plan, carefully executed, plotted, and to date, proceeding exactly on schedule, with the countess cheering on from the sideline. Very few people saw similarities between relationships and battle, but Rose had read and memorized The Art of War. Those similarities were all Rose had ever known.

“You’re going to make me, aren’t you?” he said, affectionate resignation in his voice. It was why she liked him so much. He never asked anything of her, never told her what to say or what to wear, all she had to do was sit prettily at his side and listen. Piece of cake.

“Make you? Me?” She fluttered her lashes and he laughed.

“You can say all the heartless jokes you want, but I’m on to you.”

“Do you always get your way?”

“Yes. You should have figured that out by now.”

She waited, fingers crossed under the table, until finally he nodded, and she remembered to breathe. “I’ll do it.”

Rose was so excited she nearly kissed him, except for the hot hunger that still lingered on her lips. She wanted to keep that taste there, just for a little longer.

“You’re sure? I mean, if you really don’t want to…”

“You’d let me off the hook that easily?”

“Not really, but I’m trying to show some pretense of sensitivity. Humor me, here.” Because she owed him, she endured three more blow-by-blow surgical descriptions without even a visible quiver of nausea.

Before he moved to number four, he glanced down at his watch. “It’s late. You look tired.”

A secret peek at her watch said it was nearly one, and all Rose wanted to do was go home and fall into bed. Alone.

She’d had exactly zero lovers. When you were groomed for matrimony as a blood sport, virginity was highly prized, right up there with a clean complexion and a coming-out dress. Her parents hadn’t had the money for white satin and richelieu lace, so the Hildebrandes had over-compensated with endless lectures on virtue and a lifetime supply of Neutrogena. Rose—being a bright girl and not one to rebel—had taken the hint.

Now she yawned, not exactly faked. “I’m exhausted, and with your day—honestly, I don’t know how you do it.”

“Good drugs,” he answered with an easy laugh.

And the stamina of a camel. Mentally, she slapped herself, feeling tired, punchy, and the bubbles in her blood were starting to die down. A master of efficiency, he helped her into her coat, always the gentleman, and she took a last sweep of the patrons in the lobby. Everything was so beautiful here, the polished marble, the gleaming silver, the people with their gentle laughter and placid faces. The six years of charm school had been so similar to this. Every day, the candle-glow lights and high-gloss perfection had been a safe haven for her, a few peaceful hours away from home. There, here, Rose had survived and thrived, grown hard and strong.

Her chin lifted, perfectly parallel to the ground, and she pivoted smoothly, slow and elegant, and the entire room watched her leave.

As they made their way out the doors, her heel caught on the step and when her foot moved on the shoe stayed behind. Remy—happy, smiling, gloriously rich Remy—swooped down and brandished it with a romantic flourish. “You did this on purpose?” he asked, as if she could be that clever.

He bent down, dark hair gleaming in the light, and placed the shoe on her foot. It should have been enchanting.

“Do you believe in fairy tales, Remy?” she asked curiously. If you lived within the invulnerability of the castle walls, did the myth of ever-after seem a big con on the rest of the world?

“Do you think this night is magic?” he countered, rising to his feet, and she saw a flash of something in his eyes. Something that she’d seen when she kissed the stranger. Hope. On New Year’s, everyone wanted to believe.

“I think people deserve one night of magic,” she answered, almost the truth.

It was his cue, his moment, and Remy was not stupid. He leaned closer and took her mouth, and Rose was too determined to pull back. Remy was a lot more viable than a fairy tale. He was everything she’d worked for, and his kiss was every bit as accomplished as it should be. So where was the triumph? No triumph, only the persistent taste of a hot hunger that even a fourth-generation Sinclair couldn’t ease.

Patiently she waited for the thrill of victory, the absoluteness of her control. Perhaps she hadn’t won the war, but this battle belonged to her. So why did she feel the same as before, the same as yesterday, the same as she’d felt all her life—

Numb.

As his hand moved purposefully toward her waist, Rose realized the hot hunger wasn’t going to return. It couldn’t be forced, it couldn’t be tricked.

Damn.

Deliberately, her hand covered his, and she raised her head, gave him her nicest smile—a pretend smile designed to make people believe she had a heart.

“I can’t.”

“Too quick?” he asked.

“Yes,” she told him, regret in her voice. “I’m sorry, Remy.” And she was, disappointed in herself, in her trickster mind. Sometimes she saw monsters where there were none, and sometimes she felt nothing when she should be pulsing with life.

“Soon,” she promised. “I’m still not there, yet.”

Remy thought her heart was involved elsewhere, that Rose was pining for a man who was desperately unworthy of her affections. A failed love affair had been Sylvia’s idea, but Rose had approved because it solved a lot more problems than it created.

“I can wait,” he said gallantly, not wanting to imagine a woman would be stupid enough to turn him down forever. Someday, Rose wouldn’t turn him down, but not tonight.

“Can I see you home?”

“I’ll manage. It’s not far.” Another big fat lie.

He took her hand, as if she were a princess, and kissed it once. If she were being honest with herself, she’d stop playing this game and get on with the life that she had planned. Instead, she stood there watching him go, a worried smile on her face.

After Remy had left, Rose hoofed it on aching feet to the number six train, which would take her to the Bronx. The Bronx was home, but not for too much longer. Rose had big goals for her life. She was grown, a woman fully formed, and stronger than her parents had ever guessed that Little Mary Poofster could be.

Rose wouldn’t live on false hopes and broken dreams. She didn’t have to worry about whether fairy tales or magic truly existed because they didn’t; all she had to do was foster the illusion. Rose had long ago mastered the art of the illusion. Money was security, money was real, money made you invulnerable to whatever the Fates chose to throw your way.

After she got off at her stop, she walked past the pet store boxed between the bodega and the OTB site. It was an odd place for animals, and she liked to stand outside the glass, watching the puppies from a safe distance.

The puppies always fascinated her, confined to a small pen that they didn’t seem to mind. Five tiny black fur balls with twinkling brown eyes that saw only the best in the world. They always looked carefree and content and safe behind that store window. The Hildebrandes never had a pet. Not even a fish. And Rose hadn’t missed them. Dogs were smelly and loud and dirty and could rip a hole in pink satin, quick as you could say boo.

But she liked watching from behind the window, and she wondered what they thought while they played behind the pane. Sometimes she’d put her hand on the glass and leave it there, waiting to see if they’d come to her, but they never did. Animals didn’t like her, knowing things that people never would.

Tonight, there were no puppies, only a big black monster dog with huge jaws, but tired eyes. He was curled up on the hay, with absolutely no faith that tonight was the start of something new. Lazily he opened an eye, squinted at her, and Rose squinted back. She placed her hand to the window, because from behind the glass, there was nothing he could do to her.

The dog growled.

Rose quivered, her hand falling to her side.

However, she did defiantly stare him down, until he realized she was no threat and shut his eyes, prepared to sleep once again.

Yup, animals knew things that people never would.

Before she climbed the steps to her building, Rose looked one last time at the lights of the skyline, the late-night partygoers making their way home, shouts of happiness ringing in the air, as if all was right with the world.

For a second, for one heart-stopping second, she had felt that way, too. Rose pressed a finger to her lips, remembering his kiss.

Somewhere he was out there. Was he alone? Was he thinking about her?

My prosperous Prince Charming.

The words whispered inside her, seductive and golden and warm. Quickly Rose shushed them away.

She turned and went inside.

It was New Year’s Eve, and all she wanted to do was be alone, let down her hair and slip into a pair of cushy polka-dot socks. Bright lights and a polished world might put stars in her eyes, but it sure was hell on the feet.




Chapter Three


THE HOME OF COUNT ANTON Simonov and his lovely, Brooklyn-born wife, Sylvia, was a stately twelve-room penthouse with soaring painted ceilings, a bank of windows overlooking Central Park and frame after gilt frame of stony-faced Old Masters. In the count’s private offices was a set of ornate cabinets that displayed his most treasured possessions—glass shelves full of Imperial eggs, handcrafted by Fabergé.

Every morning, a truckload of fresh flowers was brought in, all in white, because Sylvia adored white. As Sylvia’s personal assistant, it was Rose’s job to ensure that the flowers were properly placed, dead petals properly plucked, and that there were no nasty chrysanthemum’s in the bunch. According to Sylvia, “Mums look cheap, and if I wanted cheap, I’d have Anton spring for 36 double Ds and dye my hair platinum.”

To Rose, Sylvia was a living, breathing, teetering, stiletto-wearing hero. Nearly thirty years ago, Sylvia had risen from the ranks, trading in on her beauty and her wildly successful fund-raising abilities to snag one of New York’s wealthiest bachelors—who happened to be a Russian count to boot.

Rose had been doing a fine job working at a shipping insurance office in Pittsburgh, but there were always whispers that trailed after her. What the heck was she doing in an insurance office? Oh, her name wasn’t famous and her face wasn’t one they’d seen before, but her profile was too striking, her posture too straight, her walk a little too prissy for the shipping business. The curse of expectations never met.

When she spotted the profile on Countess Sylvia Simonov, a plan emerged. For two weeks, she had taken the 4:37 a.m. bus from Pittsburgh to Manhattan to volunteer at the Simonov food pantry. Not only was she helping feed the hungry, but in less than ten days, she had convinced Countess Sylvia Simonov that Rose was a charity organizer extraordinaire.

For the past three years, Rose had been in the Simonov employ, where the smell of peace and prosperity filled the air. It’d taken her twenty-seven years, but she had finally found a place where she fit. Here, under Sylvia’s nurturing eye, she was given on-the-job training on how to belong in the upper echelon, as well as steady exposure to Manhattan’s most desirable bachelors. Best of all, Sylvia and Anton were the poster people for how affluence can positively affect your life.

With Sylvia’s energetic influence, Rose had watched and learned how to achieve the life she wanted.

Today, January 1 in the Simonov household, Rose’s happy gaze touched on polished wood, perfumed satin and, most appealing of all, contentment. Dorothy, you’re not in Kansas anymore. Attention World: Dorothy is now arriving at the Plaza.

A stack of engraved envelopes landed on Dorothy’s desk, reminding her that Rose was actually paid to do more than daydream. Impatiently, Sylvia tapped a scarlet nail on the blotter.

“Rose. Thank-you notes for the Christmas gifts. Be a darling. Linda kept a running list with three categories: mine, Anton’s, ours. Here’s what I need. For mine and ours, write a personal, funny message, and let your gushing know no bounds. Sound like me if at all possible, preferably without the accent. For Anton’s list, especially the blue bloods, be impersonal, cold and stodgy. They really seem to go for that.”

At fifty-five, Sylvia was an odd contradiction of humility and beauty in an approachable, yet elegant package. Her dark hair never looked meticulously coiffed, but Rose knew the truth. The stylist was there every morning before Anton woke up in order to make the “high-glossed, natural softness” a fait accompli. Anton affectionately called it Sylvia’s bedroom hair. Sylvia would then shoot a conspiratorial wink at Rose. Rose never winked back, but sometimes she wanted to.

Daintily Sylvia stroked a black brow back into place. “Do you know the best cure for hot flashes? Believe it or not, Cristal. Seriously. But the next morning, oh, my God, the hangover is killer. Speaking of hot flashes, how’d the date go with Dr. Sinclair? Do I need the caterers and printers on speed dial, eagerly awaiting my call?”

Four dates and Sylvia was ready to post the banns. Unfortunately, Rose moved tortoiselike to Sylvia’s hare, not wanting to go too fast, not wanting to go too slow, which usually stalled things to not going anywhere at all.

“It was nice,” Rose answered vaguely.

“Yessss?” prompted Sylvia, who braced her hands on the fili-greed wood, causing fingerprints aplenty. “Tell. Spill.”

Spilling wasn’t easy for Rose. She wasn’t impulsive or impromptu, she was meticulous and well rehearsed. Being around Sylvia, though, she had learned to relax. Sylvia was…a friend. “I froze. I shouldn’t have clammed up. I should have been forthright, open. Instead, I’m with world’s most perfect man, and I find flaws. I think my standards are wonky.” She ended the whine with a perky smile, which never seemed to fool Sylvia.

“You’re too hard on yourself, Rose. A woman like you? Your poise, your face, those boobs. If I weren’t on the Forbes list, I’d have to hate you. Lighten up. It’s early yet. Give yourself a little time. Not everyone can move at light speed like moi.”

And in case life affirmations were required, Sylvia waltzed to the piano, her sheer leopard print caftan billowing around her. Delicately she plucked a white magnolia from the crystal vase and inhaled, beaming at Rose with a “yes, your life could be this grand,” gleam.

Then she squinted, stared.

“Why are you pale? You’re missing the usual glow. And those circles. You either need another brand of concealer, or else something’s keeping you up.”

“It’s nothing,” answered Rose, but Sylvia waggled a creamy white flower in her direction.

“Let me be the judge of nothing.”

Carefully Rose made neat stacks of the envelopes on the blotter, then dabbed at the smudged glass with the edge of her blazer, and finally adjusted the tiny silver desk calendar, all of which made her feel better, but did nothing to stop Sylvia’s tapping foot.

Of all the topics that Rose would love to discuss with Sylvia, this wasn’t one. Although, maybe if she talked about it, maybe if she put it out there, it would be no big. After all, it was no big, not big at all. The countess’s shoe clicked on the marble like a ticking time bomb.

Frantically, Rose scanned her desk, but there was absolutely nothing else to straighten. Because she was not a coward nor intimidated by the idea of confessing meaningless minutiae, Rose crossed her legs and lifted her chin in her best “it was nothing” attitude.

“I kissed someone last night.”

“Remy?”

“Another him,” Rose admitted.

Now looking completely intrigued, the countess raised her eyebrows, but didn’t speak. Rose was on her own. Grudgingly she owned up to the truth.

“I met someone. Times Square. It was a total fluke. I dropped my phone. He helped me out. He was…I don’t know, but…”

“And you kissed this flukey someone?” the countess asked, cutting to the heart of the matter.

“Yes.”

“At midnight?”

Evenly, Rose met her eyes, showing no fear at all and nodded.

“I see.”

“What do you see?”

“New Year’s Eve. Times Square. Midnight. Stranger. Handsome, I presume.”

“Certainly, but it wasn’t the handsome that bothered me.”

The countess flew to the desk. “Bothered you? Grab the police sort of ‘bothered you’?”

Rose shuffled the envelopes. “No. Worse.”

“Are you going to make me play twenty questions, Rose?”

There was an empty pit in her stomach when she looked up. The countess was a friend, the mother Rose had always known existed, but confiding never came easy to her. This time, however, the temptation to talk was strong, to understand, to purge.

“You had a plan, you executed, you got exactly what you wanted. Along the way, did you ever get sidetracked? Did you ever think you weren’t in control? That life wasn’t going to cooperate with what you wanted? Or is that part of it? A test of strength to see if you can overcome getting sidetracked?”

That nefarious possibility crept up on her, making Rose nervous. When you needed your life to be plotted, planned and perfectly implemented, the idea of bigger forces being at work was a disaster.

No, the bigger force was self-will and determination. Rose had to stay focused. Think Sun Tzu, think tough. Think…magic.

No.

Yes.

Maybe?

All muddled inside, she looked to the countess for advice, not even concerned that she was frowning, which wasn’t her best look.

“You believe in fate, an invisible nudge that is pushing you toward that perfect someone?”

“No.” Probably not.

Sylvia tapped a finger to her head. “And that is the correct answer, young grasshopper. Never forget. As women we can’t sit back and let the world whip us around, gusting this way and that, all because we’re too spineless to design our own destinies. Take this place. Do you think this is destiny? Hell, no. I adore Anton, there is no other man for me, but…”

“But what if we have a soul mate?” The words were clearly audible, yet Rose’s gaze flicked worriedly around the room, because there was no way that she had said that.

“Right, and there are three crones sitting around a pot, cackling like constipated hens. The hard truth is that they all live on the thirty-second floor of Central Park West, not somewhere in the wilds of a Shakespeare fable, missy.”

Relieved, Rose nodded once. “You’re right. When you’re right, you’re right.”

The countess patted her hand. “Don’t get caught up in the fantasy, Rose. A kiss can linger, sticking in your brain like yesterday’s chewing gum. Are you going to see him again?”

“I can’t. I don’t even know his name.”

“Problem solved!” Sylvia popped away from the desk, and spread her arms wide.

“It’s a billion to one shot I’d even run into him a second time,” Rose reasoned. Manhattan was huge, it was impossible to find someone unless they, for example, wanted to be found, or put an ad in missed connections. Why, if she didn’t read missed connections then she’d never know. On the face of it, the odds against her ever meeting him again were boggling.

“Not just a billion to one,” the countess corrected, “a gazillion. But, let’s walk down the primrose path. Let’s say you do run into him. Then you let him take you home, screw his brains out and promptly get him right out of your head. Unless he’s royalty. And then, dear Rose, you have my permission to marry him. But there’s no screwing with royalty. At least not at first. Women must appear to be patient, passive and never, ever, eager beavers. You have to think about these things. Sex has repercussions. Consequences.”

Rose didn’t want to think about sex; she’d spent all last night not thinking about sex, and frankly, all that not thinking about sex was making her dizzy. Finally she snapped back to the present. “I’m pretty sure he’s not royalty. Maybe finance.”

Sylvia’s mouth tightened into a disapproving moue.

“He looked like he was still doing okay,” Rose added, wanting to defend him.

Still, Sylvia appeared doubtful. “I can see you’ve got your mind preoccupied here. It’s written all over your little dreamy face.”

Hearing that, Rose removed all traces of dreamy from her face, and Sylvia continued.

“If you do have a chance encounter, go ahead, work him out of your system, and then come back and we’ll start in immediately on Plan B.”

“The bachelor auction?”

“Of course. You’re going to win the bid, you’re going to bed him, and it will turn out to be the best night of your life.” Sylvia strolled over to her flowers, then looked up and shot Rose a wink. “But do not forget. If there’s any sex to be had with this Prince Charming, you have to share every sordid detail. And leave nothing out.”

Rose held up a solemn hand. “I promise.”

FOR IAN, BEING A RUTGERS men’s basketball fan was a testament to his unwavering loyalty. Win, lose or pulverized, the three friends were always there. It had started during college. He, Beckett and Phoebe had hung out at the games between exams. After graduation, after all the life choices had been made, they moved from the student section into the moderately snazzy mezzanine where the alumni presided, secure in their life choices and their employment decisions.

On the first day of the New Year, Ian was no longer secure in his employment decisions, but the Rutgers team was sucking like a vacuum and the arena was empty, so hey, he kept his head high.

After grabbing a soda and springing for an order of nachos, Ian jogged up the concrete steps to his spot. There was the standard ritual of unspoken greeting. Phoebe waved a red cup, slightly rumpled in jeans and a Knights sweatshirt. Beckett merely grunted.

All social obligations aside, Ian checked the score. Down by ten already. Okay, not a good night at the RAC, but the Knights could come back, never say die.

However, by the second period, the Knights were still losing, and no one was talking. Worse, Beckett was pale, unshaven and crabby. Now, crabby wasn’t that unusual—Beckett put the mud in curmudgeon—but Beckett always shaved. Precise grooming was one of those boarding school rules that Beckett conformed to without even realizing it. Since boarding school was a sensitive topic, Ian chose to keep his mouth shut. “Bad hangover?” he asked instead.

“Yeah.”

“Sorry about last night. I couldn’t go to your place and smile and be all friendly.”

Phoebe leaned in, peering around Beckett. “Don’t worry about it, Ian. How was Times Square? Nightmare on Forty-Second Street, sardined in until you are intimately acquainted with people of questionable hygiene whom you never want to see again?”

“More or less. But I’m glad I went. You have to do it in order to say you’ve done it, unless you lie, and what’s the satisfaction in that? Think about it. On December 31, it’s the most perfect place in the world to be—and we live here. Why not take advantage? You ever stop to wonder about how many things we don’t do?”

Beckett didn’t look convinced; of course, Beckett never looked convinced. “There’s a reason why we don’t go to Times Square, Ian. You can watch it on TV.”

TV. As if all life’s problems could be solved on a twenty-seven-inch screen. “But you miss all the excitement,” Ian pointed out, knowing it would do no good, but needing to try anyway. Life involved spontaneous kisses and meeting the woman of your dreams, having her visit you in your dreams. Of course, it would be nice if the evening ended a little better—not that he was going to think it was a sign.

“I’ll live without the excitement, thank you,” Beckett answered, completely unenthused.

Choosing to abandon the impossible, Ian turned his attention to Phoebe. “Sorry about Dexter.” Dexter had been Phoebe’s latest.

“Eh,” she answered with a shrug.

“Don’t worry. You’ll meet somebody new.”

“Yes, I could meet someone new. Possibly. Or the world could end first, destroying all male civilization as we know it, leaving me the sole survivor, and alone I must discover the path to mono-sexual reproduction without any knowledge of biology at all. I’m thinking that’s the more likely scenario.”

Beckett snorted. “You could do it.”

Phoebe quirked a brow over her lenses. “Meet someone new?”

“The asexual reproduction thing. You’re really smart.”

“Bite me,” she replied with very little heart, and then frowned in Ian’s direction. “Why are you so happy? It sounded like last night was a bust.”

For a second he considered keeping his secret, but too few charmed things had happened to him. Right now, he needed to share the miraculousness of the kiss, cement it in his head and probably ride it out for the rest of the year.

“I kissed this woman. In Times Square. It was absolute magic, the best time of my life, topping graduation, my first bonus check, the day I bought my first place.”

Phoebe looked worried. “You kissed a stranger?” she asked. “Really?”

“Like you’ve never done it,” Beckett argued, both of them completely missing the profound significance of the moment.

“Not in Times Square. I think that’s creepy.”

Ian laughed, because he didn’t expect the rest of the world to understand. “It wasn’t creepy. It was like an old movie. She was there and then poof, she was gone. It’s a sign. A bubbling glass of Dom Pérignon, a rainbow after the storm, a golden unicorn.”

“I’m concerned about you, Ian. You shouldn’t be talking about unicorns with a serious face.”

“It’s only an expression, Beckett. You know, when you feel as if all around you the world is full and bursting, and you need to soak it in.”

Okay, that was laying it on too thick, but if a man couldn’t have big dreams on January 1, then there was no hope for him at all.

“Missing the firm, aren’t you?” Beckett asked, not fooled by Ian’s never-say-die smile.

Ian met his eyes, man to man. “Hell, yeah.”

Phoebe looked at them, confused. Honest to God, females had no idea the pressure that society put on men. It wasn’t smart, and eventually, some poor sap could break under the strain.

Right then, a roar went up as the Scarlet Knights took the ball on a streaking run, layup, net, followed almost immediately by a steal and a three-pointer. Phoebe shot up from her seat, fist-bumped Beckett, and then sat down, adjusting her glasses. “What was her name?”

Details, details. Ian coughed. “I don’t know her name. We didn’t have a lot of time, and then she had to go find her date.” Even to his own ears, it sounded weak.

“She kissed you, and she had a date? Ballsy,” murmured Phoebe.

“She didn’t like the guy,” explained Ian, because he knew it wasn’t ballsiness on her part, more the inescapable truth that for one perfect night, two souls were brought together, merging into one incandescent flame that was bigger than either of them…He sighed. Maybe she’d been drinking too much. No. He wasn’t going to be put off. If the Scarlet Knights could win—

The visiting team got a steal, three-points, followed by a foul.

Ian buried his head in his hands.

“Why don’t you try and find her?” asked Beckett. “Put an ad on missed connections. What if she’s The One? You can’t miss out on that.”

Ian glanced over at Phoebe, noticed the way her face softened.

“You should,” she told him. “Women would eat it up. Trust me, as a woman, I’m almost seduced.”

“It doesn’t take much, does it?” drawled Beckett, who usually didn’t take this many shots at Phoebe.

“Don’t be an ass,” Phoebe fired back.

“I’m not. You’re the one who’s talking about the destruction of the entire male species.”

“It was a joke, Beckett.”

“I’m sorry, when it comes to you and men, sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

“What does that mean?”

Beckett swore and fixed his eyes on the court, and the three of them watched the game, or at least Ian pretended to watch the game. He was still dwelling on the mystery woman of last night, trying to figure out if the ideal of a dream was better than charging in, throwing the dice, only to watch the Big Bad Wolf blow down the house he’d made out of happy straw.

The doubt, the insecurity, the mixed metaphors, they were all postlayoff, because prelayoff, he would have gambled all night and not panicked about losing his house at all.

At the half, when the Scarlet Knights were down by twenty-six and all hope had left the building, Phoebe turned to him, scarfing his last nacho. “Seriously. We’ll help you write the ad. Maybe she’s searching for you, too.”

Ian looked at the scoreboard, saw his future and worried. “So she meets me and she asks what I do for a living, then what am I supposed to say?”

In his mind, there were certain advantages to staying virtual strangers. Okay, there would be no sex, but on the bright side, he wouldn’t have to explain the prelayoff, postlayoff stages of his life. In the battle between his libido and his pride, pride trumped all. Although after a few days, that might be subject to change.

“All you have to tell her is that you help people find employment. Ian, it’s very noble. You should be proud of it.”

Phoebe talked in that faux-sincere voice, as if being an employment counselor was on par with working with millions of dollars at an investment bank. Not even in Phoebe’s noncompetitive universe were the two on the same scale. Pointedly, Ian stared at the emptying stands.

This wasn’t a conversation Ian wanted to have, not now, not ever. Instead, he wanted to dwell on the happy memory of last night. On her honeysuckle lips and the burst of electricity that was still humming inside him. To have her, splayed out below him, above him, truly he wasn’t picky. Just to see the warm invitation in her eyes, that ripe mouth parted and plump breasts rising, falling, tips begging to be teased…

“You should find her. Place the ad.” Beckett’s voice cut through his fantasies. Thanks, dude.

Ian weighed the options, the thought of her underneath him, surrounding him, damp thighs glistening, waiting…For him.

In the end, libido ruled. “I’ll do it.”




Chapter Four


ROSE’S APARTMENT WAS a far cry from the Simonov decadence, but it was neat, tidy and for now it was home. Her frown was automatic when she walked in the door, her eyes critical.

It never felt right. It didn’t matter if the slipcover for the sofa was hand-sewn, or that the coffee table was a steamer trunk covered in a designer print. She could hear that growling voice in her head telling her that it wasn’t straight, or that it looked cheap. Automatically she pulled at the fabric until the pleats hung at a precise ninety degrees. When she noticed the stain on the sofa, she attacked it with spot remover until the light beige fabric was restored to perfection. Yes, there was a certain cathartic satisfaction in having a clean home, but she hated that it was that voice that was responsible. Frustrated, she threw the rag in the trash and decided to concentrate on the things that made her happy.

Her pride and joy was a darling little writing secretary that she had discovered at a thrift store on Staten Island, buried between a nonworking television set and an overgrown stuffed rabbit named Helen. The desk was a solid wood Queen Anne with lots of hidden components, delicate carved legs and a drop-front lid. After changing into her pajamas, she grabbed the thank-you cards from her bag and settled down to work.

By the time it was midnight, she wasn’t tired—she was buzzing. Not caffeine. Careful excitement, the kind that almost made her squirm in her chair. Sylvia had given her the green light to proceed. Not that she was going to proceed, but…what if? Dangerous words. Rose rolled her eyes, told herself to get a life and picked up the pen.

One after another she went through the list of gifts, writing like a fiend, channeling her inner Sylvia, knocking out thank-yous. There were notes for bottles of wine, for autographed baseball gloves—Anton was a fan—and for an antique jade vase from the Kremlin. Jeez, did the Simonov household really need another vase, another set of crystal glasses, another set of monogrammed cuff links? Cufflinks?

She backtracked over the list, just in case she’d read wrong. Why was Anton getting cuff links?

Rose studied the maid’s tidy handwriting and flipped the paper over to find the name of the gift-giver on the following page.

Rose swore, loud and completely improperly.

Blair Rapaport? Hussy, with a capital HO.

By the age of twenty-one, Blair had written a tell-all book on her breast augmentation surgery and had financially exploited seven sex-tape scandals—and the clock of misdeeds was still ticking. On the last television interview, her parents defended her, saying that drunken voice-mail messages over the Internet was “all part of growing up.”

So why was Blair giving a Christmas present to Anton? Rose checked the list again. Cuff links? Seriously? Did Blair even know what cuff links were?

This couldn’t end well. Rose looked at Helen, who remained stubbornly silent.

No, Rose. Keep out. This was none of her business. There was probably an easy explanation…actually there was no easy explanation that wouldn’t end with Sylvia pitching a fit, and Rose didn’t like it when Sylvia pitched a fit.

She didn’t like it when anyone pitched a fit.

Opting to do nothing except her job, Rose inked a bland note. Although, maybe, if Blair was smart enough to read between the lines, she’d notice the overuse of the word we. And the “such a grown-up gift from such a young girl.” That was a definite dig.

Rose reread the card and in the end, tore it up into tiny pieces and dumped it in the trash. Blair was getting no thank-you card from the Simonovs, and if Rose had her way, she’d get a bitch-slap instead. Well, probably not an actual bitch-slap, but if Rose were inclined, if she were truly channeling Sylvia, she could do it. She curled her fingers in a fist, wound it up and slammed it down on the desk—killing her hand.

Okay, no bitch-slaps for now, but tomorrow was another day.

By the time she’d finished the list, it was 2:00 a.m. and she was no closer to wanting to sleep. She could hear her computer calling her, a languid come-hither hand inviting her to only peek and see if maybe…

What would it hurt? Honestly. And how would she know otherwise? A gazillion to one. Not a chance in the world.

Tiny goose bumps appeared on her arms. Not fear.

Even though she was alone, she looked both ways before hitting the keys. Navigating Craigslist, she arrowed in on Missed Connections, scanning, scanning, scanning…

Who knew that so many strangers hooked up on New Year’s Eve? There were four pages of—

Oh.

My life started on the first second of the New Year…



Magic.

Rose jumped out of her chair, knocking over the pile of thank-you cards, and then immediately picked them up.

He was looking for her. His name was Ian. Her feet slowly touched the ground. Ian was not Dr. Remy Sinclair. He was a stranger in Times Square who had really good shoes and an expensive coat. That coat was a triple-word score, spelled A-R-M-A-N-I.

Rose knew that justification of a wrong was a dangerous game, but she wanted to play. Her loins ached to play, and her loins had never ached before.

Under her parents’ eagle eyes, she hadn’t dared stray, and after Child Services had removed her to a group home at age fourteen, the environment hadn’t been conducive to activities of a sexual nature.

However, at fifteen, on a cold December night, she’d learned to explore. Quietly, hidden under the blankets of her bunk so her roommates couldn’t hear…

Those dark silent moments were instructive to Rose. She wanted to learn about pleasure, to create it, to control it, to deny it. Pleasure led to impulsiveness, which led to mistakes. Mistakes were not tolerated.

On those dark nights, with the scratchy wool on her thighs and her hand between her legs, there were never any fantasies for Rose. Men didn’t arouse her with their arrogance and their games. Rose knew the prison-warden side of the alpha male—the rules, the constraints, the dominance.

Rose hated it.

But last night when her hand had crept beneath the covers, she had seen him, felt him, remembered his mouth on hers, trailing down her neck, teasing one breast then the other, sliding farther…

Rose stopped that line of thought and fanned herself, surprised by the heat on a cold January night.

Ian—she rolled his name off her tongue—turned her on with something else. Her fingers slipped between her legs, beneath her panties, and she found herself wet, aroused.

Odd, yet fun. Curious, she pleasured herself, conjuring his face, remembering his mouth. Her finger stroked faster, her body flushed, and for tonight, she could imagine a man’s hands on her, feel his gentle caress, sure, easy, hungry yet restrained. Her breathing staggered, and this time she didn’t see the dark of the ceiling. Instead, she saw deep brown eyes burning with a light she couldn’t understand. She tasted the heat of his mouth on hers. A tiny moan escaped from her throat. Pleasure. Stealthy and sly. The pleasure teased her, beckoned to her, testing her control. Warily her lashes drifted shut, and she surrendered to the fantasy, finding her rhythm, sensing the orgasm chasing after her.

The first flutters of pressure increased, building more, and her heart began to race at the challenge to cut it off before it took control of her.

In the end, it was no challenge at all. Here, no man would follow her, and Rose closed off her mind, banishing the twinkling eyes, blocking the feel of that devouring mouth. Here, no one followed but Rose. The warmth pooled over her, and there was only a second—never more than one gossamer second—that her muscles contracted and her body flooded with pleasure. Deliberately, Rose shut the pleasure down.

Here was her secret place, the quiet blanket in the dark where the blustering voices had never entered, where only Rose could hide. She’d been quick and careful and silent because little ladies didn’t touch themselves and little ladies were not to be touched, and Rose needed to be the world’s most perfect little lady.

In the blink of an eye, her cheeks had cooled, her heart had calmed and Rose had smoothed the silk pajamas. Gracefully she took her seat and typed out an appropriate response on the keyboard. When she was finished, she allowed herself one tiny punch into the air, all while keeping her feet firmly on the ground.

His name was Ian.

THIS WAS WRONG. BECKETT never trusted sex, it was too full of complications and emotions, but he trudged after Phoebe, ignoring the eight thousand logical and rational reasons that this would be a mistake. He’d been in her long and empty apartment many times before, but not like this. Not with his cock painfully full, and images of her plastered in his head.

Foolishly he followed her over scuffed, golden oak floors, followed her into the dark recesses of her bedroom. She had five seasons of Family Guy on her dresser for late-night watching. He kept rolling over that mundane fact in his mind, but when she began to strip off her clothes, suddenly he was obsessed.

He wanted to touch her. Badly. His blood burned with it, but his brain—the part that was still functioning—held him back.

The sweater came off, exposing a sheer bra and the dark nipples underneath. The air smelled of pine cleaner, burned soup and Beckett’s lust. His breathing grew ragged as he watched her shed her shoes, her jeans. The glasses were removed, dropped on the nightstand near the bed.

Through the window, the Upper East Side slept quietly in their beds, a ship’s horn bleating, a truck honking and somewhere a siren screamed.

Beckett didn’t care. Tonight, the entire East River could burn and he wouldn’t budge from this place.

In his mind, he’d never considered a naked Phoebe. Yet there she was. The half-opened slats of the blinds pushed light into the darkness of her bedroom, her skin flashing gold, then shadows as she moved.

She walked forward, bare feet padding on the thick rug, and from the living room he could hear the crazed cackle of her parrot, scolding him. Still, his eyes didn’t stray. She was…not exactly beautiful, but something that fascinated him even more. The long, lean curve of her that ran from the high breast to the arch of her hips. His gaze drifted lower to the sleek muscles of her thighs. The dark shadow between.

When they were a whisper apart, Phoebe raised her head and stared, and those normally shielded, practical gray eyes were blurred with confusion. Beckett hated confusion, but his mind wasn’t thinking, or more likely, he didn’t want his mind to think. Furious, with her, with himself.

Complications and emotions. He could feel them swirling in the air, smelled it, stronger and more potent than the musky scent of desire. If they did this, they could never go back.

Complications and emotions.

There was a clanging in his brain. A bell. A foghorn.

A phone.

“Do you want me to answer that?”

NO! “You should,” he stammered. “Get that. Now.”

“Whatever you want, whatever you say,” she muttered. “Get the phone, Phoebe. I’ll get the phone, Phoebe.” As she walked, he watched the miraculous perfection that was her bare ass, until she selfishly wrapped herself in the duvet covers and picked up her phone. “WHAT?”

He nearly laughed, but then she would glare, so he kept quiet. Beckett needed the break. He was nervous and desperate—never a good combination. Fate had thrown a kink in their plans. Why the kink? Was fate trying to tell him that this was a bad idea? It hadn’t seemed like a bad idea earlier.

“Who wrote you?” Phoebe was talking into the phone. Without her glasses, she looked so different, so unsure. Okay, this was a bad idea. The duvet cover slipped, his eyes tracked the movement…

“Why didn’t she tell you her name?” Phoebe glanced at him, mouthed the word, Ian.

She was talking to Ian. Naked. She was naked, talking to Ian. Beckett tried to follow the conversation but naked kept getting in the way. He turned, futzed with the Family Guy DVDs on the dresser, doggedly studying the nefarious face of Stewie, knowing that behind every innocent expression lurked the mind of evil. Beckett looked at her reflection in the mirror, now doggedly studying the V between her breasts, and felt his tongue start to swell.

Her eyes met his, but she wasn’t wearing her glasses. She wouldn’t notice. Her brows furrowed. She noticed. Quickly he refocused on Stewie, because somewhere in the world, the Fates were laughing.

And if he didn’t get it, her parrot started cackling, as well.

She put her glasses on, her eyes magnified, the confusion magnified, his guilt magnified. Damn it.

No, he was above all this. Carefully he moved toward the bed, step by step, inch by inch, and then balanced precariously on the very edge. “What he’s saying?” he whispered.

Phoebe hit the mute button. “She e-mailed.”

“She didn’t give her name?” he asked, his mind resuming function.

“No name, no number, but he still set up the date. Jane Doe agreed.” Her voice was brisk, businesslike, as if nothing had ever happened. As if she wasn’t sitting there bare…

“No good,” he cut in. “What if some other strange woman saw the listing and decided that Ian sounds like an easy mark? Or worse yet, what if he shows up and she’s a serial killer, or like, a cow?”

Phoebe glared, and he sighed with relief. Okay, this felt normal. This felt right. She unmuted the phone. “Ian, listen. What if some other strange woman saw the listing and decided you sounded like an easy mark? Or worse yet, what if you show up, and she’s a serial killer, or umm…mean?” There was a pause. “No. I’m not channeling Beckett, thank you very much. I’m just concerned.”

Beckett beamed at her. Silently she shot him the finger.

“No, I don’t think she’s trying to protect herself. You’re not a serial killer.”

She sighed, bosom heaving. Beckett sighed, too, then looked away. “No, you couldn’t be a serial killer, Ian.”

Beckett snickered.

“I’m not trying to mother you. I give you my word.” She stared at Beckett pointedly. “Yes, if you wanted a brutal evisceration of reality, you would have called Beckett.”

Insulted, he stood up and went back to studying the DVD. Mostly.

“I’ll try to be positive. How about this? It’s a huge sign and you’re right to be over the moon.” Ew. Beckett frowned. Really, she needed to come up with better lines than that.

“Yes, I firmly believe it’s the same hottie who kissed you and the two of you are going to live happily ever after.

“No. I’m not just saying that to make you feel better.

“Ian,” she warned.

“You’re not needy. Okay, you’re needy. Good night, Ian.”

With a click she hung up, and they were back to being alone. Beckett held the DVD to his chest like a shield. “I have to go. Can I borrow this?”

“Do you want to find out about Ian, about his date, about how excited he is?” She sounded ticked; he knew she’d be ticked, and it was better this way. Safer. No complications. No emotions. If only she’d get…dressed. Until then, he was screwed. Metaphorically, not literally. If he meant literally, he wouldn’t be having this stupid conversation with his brain.

Manning up, he met Phoebe’s eyes squarely, prepared to set things straight between them. “He’s screwed. It won’t be the same chick, or if it is, he’ll get punked on some reality prank show. Life doesn’t work out that good. Nothing works out the way you want it to.” He held up the DVD. “Mind if I borrow this?”

Okay, he’d settled nothing, but she wasn’t looking at him all soft and confused anymore. Now she looked pissed. “Just go, Beckett.”

She was proving his point. Beckett ran for the door, clutching the DVD, her parrot’s crazed cackle echoing behind him.




Chapter Five


THE MANHATTAN OFFICE for Employment Displacement. It was the tenth floor of a worn midtown building with an elevator that sometimes went wonky. All around the three-room office were signs of encouragement, pictures of eagles soaring in the sky, posters that proclaimed: “Yes, you can.” Yet inside the reception area were also the faces of the employmentally displaced, and it was hard to reconcile them with the pictures of soaring eagles when all they wanted was to find work and pay the rent.

For all the wisecracks Ian made at the eagles’ expense, he did his part. Jeans and goofy T-shirts were the uniform here. His boss, Sal D’Amato, said it made people feel less out of touch. Privately, Ian thought that a T-shirt that said, “Practice Safe Lunch—Use a Condiment,” didn’t do squat, but he kept an encouraging smile on his face and his prelayoff wardrobe stored in his closet. “Interview clothes,” that’s what Ian called them now.

Although, tonight “interview clothes” would morph into “date clothes,” because tonight he had a date, and not just any date. This was the date of a lifetime. With a woman whose face had been embossed on his brain, in his dreams. He could remember her smell, the silken touch of her skin, even the feel of her fingers pressing against his neck. He looked at the eagles, wings outspread, images frozen in time, and he gave them an encouraging smile. Tough luck, dude. Tonight, it’s my turn to fly.

Alas, today he had to actually work like a turkey before he could fly.

The hiring project of the day was Mitchell Unger, an unemployed ad man, forty-nine, with a family of three to worry about. Adding to his misery, the oldest boy would be starting college soon, and Mitch was starting to sweat not only food and rent, but tuition, as well.

At precisely 9:13 a.m., Ian started on the phones—because true New Yorkers took precisely thirteen minutes to get down to business. The first three calls went straight to voice mail, the next number had been disconnected, company number five believed that marketing was overrated, company six had just hired someone new, but on lucky call seven, Ian finally hit pay dirt and the negotiations began.

Without any remorse in her cold, cold heart, Mary offered the lowest of the low. Mail room. Ian jumped all over it, because any opening was progress of the very best kind.

“What about this? You pay him the mail room salary, but throw him some creative work. Think of the cost savings alone. Imagine the visual. Your managers sitting around a table, and you’re pitching Mitchell’s ideas, and they’re all looking at you as if you’re a goddess. This is your moment, Mary. Humbly you explain about Mitchell, explain how little he’s costing the company and how much he’s bringing to the table. And then the suits crack a smile—nay a broad-bowed grin that is going to crack the Botox right off their faces. Imagine it, Mary—suddenly you’re the hero.”

His hero wasn’t completely buying it. “No, I don’t write fiction. Come on, Mary. Give him a shot. I’ll do anything.”

And those were the magic words she’d been waiting to hear. Ian wondered if he ought to feel cheap, pimping out his investment skills in exchange for work, a habit that was marginally illegal since he wasn’t employed by a licensed broker, at least not presently. On the other hand, it was for the greater good, the ultimate sacrifice, and best of all, his skills stayed razor-sharp.

“Altriva? The dog food company. You heard something?” Ian hunched over the keyboard, fingers flying as if they were born to soar. “Maybe. Give me a second.” He scanned the numbers, catching the six-month-long uptick. “You know this is going to cost you, right?”

Mary knew.

“I don’t come cheap. But the Portland Scientific recommendation panned out, right? The numbers are solid. Liabilities are low. Recently a lot of insider trading, all buys, but I don’t see any clues in the news. It’s definitely trending up. The P/E looks sweeter than my mom’s apple pie, and they have new management. Go ahead, buy. You have my blessing.” Sensing victory within his grasp, Ian strolled back over to his desk and kicked up his feet. “I’ll send Mitchell over for an interview today. Clear the schedule, Mary. You’re going to love him.”

After he rang off with Mary, Ian punched in Mitchell’s number.

“Mitch, my man, it’s Ian. You need to turn off the daytime talk shows and break out the suit. Interview at Scholstein, Harden, today at four. It’s a junior position. Sorry about that, dude, but I have great faith in your abilities to turn a silk purse into something even silkier. After all, you are in advertising.”

For the next five minutes, Mitch cooed and oohed, expressing his undying gratitude until, embarrassed by the compliments and accolades, Ian made up an excuse and hung up.

The gratitude always hit him between the eyes. When Ian was in banking, his clients were smug, taking their ten percent returns with a clipped nod and a bottle of aged scotch at Christmas. At the employment office, this gratitude felt off. Ian didn’t deserve it. Honestly, there were no miracles working here, none at all. Not like in finance, where miracles occurred by the trillion on a daily basis.

Thinking of his prelayoff life was not a good way to start today. Automatically his hands reached for the polished rock that sat on his desk, tossing it up and down like a baseball. When Ian was seven, he had wanted to be an astronaut. His father had sat by his bedside and solemnly told him the stone was a moon rock. After that, every single night he had slept with the tiny fragment of the galaxy under his pillow. By the age of nine, he wanted to be a basketball player, and his father had said that it was a piece of foundation from Madison Square Garden. However, by the age of nine, Ian was smarter and wiser, and called his dad a big, fricking liar. His father had gazed at him, man to man, and told him the rock’s initial place of residence didn’t matter. The most important thing, according to his father, was to think about the rock’s final destination. A rock could be moved from place to place, but where it ended up was a lot more important than where it started.

Being a cocky nine-year-old, Ian had rolled his eyes and drawn out Da-ad to a long two syllables. But when his father wasn’t watching, Ian took the stone and casually tossed it in the air before tucking it in his pocket.

Ian felt his dad’s smile, rather than saw it, and to this day, Ian found myriad uses for his stone. Maybe this wasn’t his final destination, but for now, for today, the victories were starting to smell sweet.

One file on his desk was not smelling so sweet. There were no victories for Hilda Prigsley. For four months, he’d beaten every bush in town—and a few out of town—but sadly, in New York, very few individuals saw the wisdom of taking on an over-fifty teapot-shaped immigrant from the UK. She typed well over one hundred words per minute, one-twenty-two to be exact, but unfortunately believed that computers were the handiwork of the devil. Ian had tried his damnedest to find her something, but positions for a portly Mary Poppins weren’t as plentiful as some might think.

Once a week Miss Prigsley stopped in the office, bringing him a tinful of handmade English biscuits. Ian always called them cookies, because then she would correct him in her proper English way, and he would pretend that he’d forgotten, and she would giggle and smile and he felt as if he’d just charmed his grandmother. If he could only figure out a way to market a sentimental lexicologist, she would be so employed, but reluctantly he pushed her file aside and focused on the nonlexicologist extraordinaires.

By the end of the afternoon, Ian had found two more positions. One for a budding young medical assistant, Deirdre Synder, and one for Mortimer Haswell, a fifty-eight year old mortgage broker who wasn’t happy about a secretarial job and came down to the office to whine in person.

After a few seconds of polite listening, Ian paused for dramatic effect and then held up his stone. He looked Mort in his basset-esque eyes and asked, “Do you know where this came from?”

Mort shook his shaggy gray head.

“This stone is from my first job. Recycling. Now, if you’ve ever worked recycling in this state, you know it’s not a pretty job. It’s not elegant. It’s not one of those run-out-and-brag-to-all-your-friends job. But I did it. Dirty, crappy and I smelled like bad fish until I went to sleep with that smell on my pillow. I stuck my hands in things better left unidentified, and my friend, in garbage, ignorance is the only thing keeping you sane. After my first month, when I was one refuse load away from quitting, I found this stone, winking up at me like a talisman. For seven years I shoveled trash, saving up for college. And let me tell you, on the bright, shiny day I graduated from Harvard, this little stone was tucked under my mortarboard. It was my lucky charm. You gotta see the big picture, Mort. It’s not where you start, it’s where you end up.”

Mort’s unibrow furrowed deeper into his forehead. “I don’t know, Ian. I can’t type.”

Ian was used to the objections and nodded sympathetically. “Yes, you can, Mort. You can do anything you want. Go in there. Make yourself indispensable. You’ll be fine, wait and see. Within a year—tops—you’ll be back in finance where you belong.”

It took a little more convincing, but eventually Mort left—almost satisfied. Ian picked up his polished rock and put it in the drawer. Wasn’t going to need any props tonight. Tonight was all about the shimmer and shine.

When five o’clock rolled around, he watched as the civil servants left before pulling out his suit and studying it with a critical eye. The lapels didn’t have quite the spiffy stiffness that Wall Street required. Some wayward lint had wormed its way under the cuffs, and even an untutored nose could detect the faint aroma of mothballs. Okay, lots of work to be done here.

For the next thirty minutes, Ian toiled away at mothball-scent-removal. Using a combination of high-dollar cologne, an emergency container of Febreze and a twist of lemon, he finally transformed mothballs into something resembling the elusive, yet highly potent, scent of success.

When the cuffs were straight, the collar was angled exactly right and the shoes were shined, Ian admired the finished product in the men’s room mirror. This was the Ian Cumberland of yesteryear, maybe a little skinnier. His chin rose, his smile got slightly harder and his eyes sparkled with that familiar devil-may-care glint. Yeah, that was it. Absolutely perfect.

Watch out, world.

Ian Cumberland was back.



THE RESTAURANT WAS IN the financial district, on the thirty-second floor of the Liberty Towers. The view was spectacular—the lights from the tankers on the Hudson, the skyscrapers across the way, the Statue of Liberty in the New York Harbor—but it was nothing compared to her.

She was standing by the window, waiting, and his breath caught, held.

He’d never seen a woman whose face was so exquisitely formed. Would it always be like that? Did the curators at the Louvre ever stop gawking at the Mona Lisa?

Up to now, Ian had always made fun of the pretentious types who had season tickets to the symphony, idling their time in pursuit of cultural beauty. He never quite “got” that. Growing up in Scranton warped a man’s artistic perspective. But this woman’s perfection stopped his heart.

She turned, smiled, and he wiped the goofy gobsmackery off his face before she saw. Tonight he was the investment banker, a confident man who was never caught being gobsmacked at all.

“Ian Cumberland, at your service for the rest of your life.” He meant it as a joke, but his voice sounded serious. Serious and gobsmacked. He tried to get the devil-may-care look back. Failed.

“Rose,” she answered. “Rose Hildebrande.” Her smile was shy, blushing, and he thought Rose was the exact perfect name.

He took her elbow, twirled her, admiring the flair of her little black dress, the way it crossed over the straining perfection of her breasts, the way it set off the long line of her legs. Sexy, simple. Hot as hell.

“You know, all the guys in there are going to want to kill me.”

Her cheeks flushed, her lashes lowered. “Sorry,” she told him, a bit of hesitation in her voice.

And now he’d scared her. Dude, get on your game.

“No, I’m the one with the apologies. You look lovely,” he told her, leading her inside, seeing the eyes follow them, follow her. Yeah, eat it up, New York. Tonight, forever, she’s mine.

The evening had been meticulously planned, perfectly arranged, each step designed to turn her glorious head. Ian figured that tonight he had one shot to seal the deal. One shot for him to recover his prelayoff charm; it could be done.

The maître d’ greeted him by name, leading him to the designated table, the prime spot at the apex of the windows, where all of New York awaited her pleasure. She looked at the table, stared up at the vent and then—so delicately that only a man attuned to her every smallest movement would notice—shivered.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, praying to God there was no problem; he’d given the maître d’ an extra C-note for that table, and he knew the man wouldn’t give it back.

“No,” she answered, but there was a tiny quiver in her voice.

“If you want to sit somewhere else, honestly, it’s no big. You get cold?”

Her soft blue eyes filled with anxiety. “I’m sorry to be such a pain. My internal thermostat is crazy. I’m hot, then cold. Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” he said, and then gave the ever-efficient maître d’ a commanding nod. “What else do you have?”

“A small table in the back, sir,” he responded, a stodgy whiff of England in his accent. “By the kitchen. Unless you’d like to wait at the bar.”

“I don’t mind the kitchen,” she told him, then pitched her voice low. “It will probably be warmer anyway.”

“Tonight, whatever you want,” answered Ian gallantly.

After they were seated, she balanced her chin on her palm, eyes wide and liquid. She had ridiculously long lashes, shuttering against the golden sheen of her cheeks. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot.”

“Nonsense,” he answered, because he would fight her for that title. Probably win.

“So, Ian. Do you come here often? It’s gorgeous. I love all the flowers.” She sniffed the heavy perfume of the nearby vase of lilies, her glorious breasts filling, creamy skin beckoning to him.

Ian leaned close, ignoring the flowers, his hungry gaze following the line of silken skin, his fingers itching to touch. She noticed, and her mouth twitched with humor. Charmed, Ian shrugged, just as any good investment banker would. “Busted. Sorry. I’m not usually such a carnal-vore. Actually, really, I usually am, and it’s been a long…” Shut up, Ian. Quickly he changed the subject. “My building’s around the corner,” he explained, forcibly removing his eyes from her chest. “We take a lot of clients here.”

“Clients? What sort of clients?” she asked innocently, leading him into the very subject he really should avoid. But why should he be so determined to avoid it? If he was truly a courageous man, he would be honest. Let her evaluate him on his own merits, charm and roguish good looks, rather than his bank account.

Ian hesitated for only a second. “I’m an investment banker,” he lied, opting not to be evaluated on his own merits, charm and roguish good looks. Immediately he glanced around, waiting for lightning to strike. None did. Ian smiled, relieved.

“Still on your feet, I see. No pesky recession to strike you down?” There was respect in her eyes, and Ian knew he’d answered correctly. He loved that flare in a woman’s face, more powerful than a beknighting sword to the shoulder, more satisfactory than when the tellers at the bank had greeted him by name. He exhaled, his chest swelling with pride, completely undeserved.

“I survived, but it’s been tough. A total bloodbath, but they like me. I do a good job for the firm. What about you?” he asked, getting the subject away from him. He didn’t want to talk about his prelayoff job; he didn’t want to talk about his postlayoff life. That pretty much limited the conversation to her, which was fine with him; he wanted to know everything about her, every secret, every dream…every inch underneath her dress.

“I’m a personal assistant. Not as glamorous as you.”

“Still, I bet it’s a cool job.”

“Someday I’m going to do more.”

“Like what?” he asked, reading the uncertainty in her face. He saw it all the time in his world. People adrift, not sure which way to move, frozen into doing nothing.

She shrugged, a small lift to an elegant shoulder. “I’m not sure. Nothing feels right. How did you know that banking was for you?”

“I’ve wanted to be in banking for…pretty much forever. Dad didn’t make much money, and I wanted more. Greedy, I guess.”

“I call that ambition.”

“See, this is why I like you. With spin like that, you should consider a career in advertising.” Automatically his brain shifted to job-finding mode—there was an agency in Park Slope, small, boutique and…Stop it, Ian.

Rose glanced toward the doorway where a waiter appeared carrying a large porcelain vase of two dozen perfect white roses. Handpicked by Ian only two hours before. Every woman’s eye was drawn to the bouquet, longing to be the one, and Ian’s smile got a little more cocky. The man started toward the window.

Walked closer to the table by the window.

Walked even closer to the table by the window.

Finally, with a continental bow, the waiter presented the two dozen perfect white roses to the elderly woman seated at what used to be Ian’s table. Her husband, a white-haired man with silver glasses—and most likely, a fat bank account—beamed, as if he’d given her the world. The wife blushed. Ian seethed. Quietly, unobtrusively, so no one would notice.

“Is something wrong?” asked Rose.

Ian blanked his face. “No. He looks like a VP that I once worked with. Really didn’t like him. Always took credit for the slog he didn’t do. You know the type—they haunt every office of every industry in America.”

“Of course,” she said, but she was watching the couple, her heart in her eyes. “It’s fascinating. He still orders her flowers. Why?”

“Maybe there’s no reason.” Not every gift needed an occasion; sometimes it was just because.

“I don’t think so. There’s always a reason, even if they don’t realize there’s a reason. People don’t give without expecting in return.”

“Wow, beautiful and cynical, too.” He’d assumed that men paid homage to her, built temples and monuments, wrote odes and symphonies. But contrary to her hard words, her gaze was firmly glued to the sight of those white roses and the contented smile on the other woman’s face.

So it was flowers that were her raison d’être? One more piece of data to put in the Rose file. Bring flowers for no apparent reason.

Eventually she looked away, her eyes more firmly entrenched in the here and now. “In the long run, pretty isn’t the big whoop that everyone thinks it is. There are levels in the world. Pretty will get you invitations, five dollars off on your laundry and maybe a free pass on a parking ticket, but that’s as far as it goes. But the man at the top, the one who sits fifty stories above the masses, that’s the pinnacle. He lives life on his terms, and no one tells him what to do.”

Ian felt a cold knot in his gut, and wondered if she had guessed at his sorry truth. “You’re talking about money, aren’t you?”

She nodded once. “Sure. Money, power, control.”

Something flashed in her face—pain? And then the moment was gone, the shutters in place. The impassive Mona Lisa was back and the light began to dawn. This wasn’t about him. This was about her. “He did a number on you, huh?”

“Who?” she asked sharply.

“I have no idea.”

Immediately the wistful dreams reappeared like magic. “I’m not sure what’s bothering me tonight.”

“Don’t want to talk about it? I’m a good listener, and I know absolutely nothing about you.”

“Not much to say. Personal assistant. Moved from nowhere to New York. I manage.”

With a pile of men trailing after her with their tongues hanging out. Like Ian. “So what happened with your date?”

She didn’t pretend she didn’t understand or play coy, and he admired her for that. He liked that. She might sell herself short on brains, but she could read people well. Including him. Politely he dabbed at his mouth, in case his tongue was hanging out, as well.

“His name is Remy. It was our fourth date. He’s very nice. He’s perfect.”

“How perfect?” asked Ian, now surreptitiously checking for hidden cameras, in case this was reality TV at its worst.

“He’s a heart surgeon. Pediatric. Saving small children is a line on his resume. Good-looking. Family money.”

“Cheats on his taxes?”

Sadly she shook her head.

“Undisclosed porn addiction.”

Rose looked at him and laughed. “I don’t think so.”

“Wow. I don’t see anything wrong there.”

“I know,” she told him unhappily.

“Rose? Why are you here?”

“Do you believe in it?” she asked him, her face serious and nervous.

“What’s ‘it’?”

“Fate.”

He could invent something really romantic and magical, something to make her sigh, but she’d probably heard all that before. Instead Ian went with the unremarkable truth. “In the past, I didn’t. I mean, I wanted to, but it never went my way, so it was a lot better for my mental health to think it wasn’t out there.”

“Why not?”

There were a lot of ways to answer that question. Ian chose the least incriminating. “There was this kid in third grade, Kevin Trevaskis, and his parents were a total pain because every year he stayed up waiting for Santa Claus and he never got any presents. But he still believed in this great concept of goodness, even though nothing ever came his way, either. I always felt sorry for that kid. At least, if your parents perpetuate the Santa Claus myth, you have those formative years to hang your hat on, but Kevin didn’t even have that. It was sad.”

“You didn’t tell him the truth?”

Now that he thought about it, it was becoming completely obvious that Ian had issues with truth, even as a young child. Yet now was not the time to dwell on past—and possibly present—indiscretions.

“Who am I to take away his hope? And before New Year’s I’d been thinking about Kevin, thinking maybe he had it right. What if we were the ones who had it all wrong? I went down to Times Square, drinking the enchanting elixir, because for one day, for one second in time, I wanted to believe in that hope, too. I wondered if I’d been missing out. Then I saw you, and I knew. Kevin was right.”

Rose turned a little pale, her eyes wide. Definitely fear.

“Why is that a bad thing?” he asked, not wanting to be insulted, but worried that once again, this was not going to end well, especially in light of Dr. Pediatric Perfection.

“Destiny implies an absence of choice. It means that my decisions, my choices, my words don’t matter. Somebody somewhere is playing chess, and I’m the pawn.”

Relieved, Ian exhaled slowly. “You don’t have strings. You just follow the open doors and see if you like where it leads.”

“Doors aren’t good. Doors can be shut.”

“Doors can be opened.”

“But you’re an idealist,” she pointed out. He’d never thought of himself as an idealist before, and she was wrong, but he liked that she saw him that way.

“So you don’t think this…is fate?”

“I’ve thought a lot about it since that night. I’m not a big romantic. But you make me want to believe in something nice.”

When he looked at her, he could see the ghost of Kevin Tre-vaskis. Hope and fear battling it out. Ian’s feelings were much more defined. Rose made him believe in a better road ahead, in soul mates bound by a single kiss—and then, of course, getting her naked, not specifically in that order. Prudently, Ian shook off the lust and then deflected the conversation to her.

“How come you’ve never married?” He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that she’d stayed single, sexy and beautiful for this long.

Again she fiddled with the silverware, hesitating. Eventually she decided to trust him. Rose looked up, her eyes not so hard, now almost wistful. “I keep thinking that something better is out there. Like I’m missing out. You ever run up to the crosstown bus stop just as the driver’s pulling away, and you know that was your bus, but you can’t see the number, so you stand there for a minute, not sure if you need to start walking. That’s the way I feel about the men in my life. That I’ve just missed the bus, but I don’t know if I should start walking or wait for the next bus.”




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