Rock Bottom. Cate Masters

      The laptop screen cast a pale blue-white light across the keyboard, enough to navigate the web. Billie Prescott clicked through the pages. “How perfect.”

      From the bedroom sounded a creak, then footsteps padded up. Strong arms encircled her waist, and a deep voice rumbled in her ear. “Porn surfing? Without me?”

      Giggling, she leaned into him. “This is porn to me.”

      “Tree houses?” He rested his chin on her shoulder and then nudged his shirt away from her neck to nuzzle.

      “For adults. Aren’t they amazing?” Since reading Robinson Crusoe as a little girl, she’d harbored a dream to live in a life-sized house in the trees.

      “Come back to bed. You’re wrinkling my shirt.”

      His sexy growl trembled along her skin, made her yearn for what it promised. “But these are–”

      He cupped her breast and squeezed.

      Instinctively, she slid her hand up into his hair. “You’re right. I can look at them some other time.” Two years she’d waited for him. Two long years of flirting and innuendo, and a date here and there in various states of undress before finally landing him in her bed. As much as it had delighted her to awaken and see Everett sleeping beside her, she had difficulty imagining him in her dream house.

      Still, she took his hand and let him lead her to the bedroom. He may or may not be her soul mate, but only a thorough investigation would reveal the truth. A long, deep, intensive investigation.

      Everett excelled at intensive. For short intervals, at least.

      * * * *

      Billie bumped open the conference room door, dribbling coffee down her pant leg. “Ach.” One reason her wardrobe consisted of black and chocolate: stains didn’t show as well. Besides, her long dark hair and fair complexion never fit the summery light tones.

      Around the small circular table, the staff of Strung Out, Philly’s struggling music magazine, halted conversations to send haughty glares in her direction. Billie liked to joke Strung Out wanted to be Rolling Stone when it grew up. In her five years there, they’d lost a few staffers to the better-known and respected national competitor. More would follow if they could, if only to escape these cramped quarters and this grimy city to trendier New York, Chicago or LA. Not Billie. She liked staying closer to home. And Everett. Especially now that things had begun to get interesting.

      Sliding onto a seat, she dabbed at the coffee spot. When her gaze landed on Zinta, Billie smiled and said hello. “Hey, I want to hear about that Incubus concert later. Next time they play in town, they’re mine.”

      “Yeah. Later.” Zinta’s shoulder-length blond hair glinted in the morning sun, and she arched a brow. Not a good sign. Others found her a hard read, probably because of her striking features–rosebud mouth in ever-present rose-red lipstick, dark brows framing green eyes rimmed with thick lashes. But Billie picked up her friend’s subtle cues: a lifted brow-flicked glance combo could spell real trouble.

      Everett’s glare hardened. “As I was saying…”

      Billie would have to be on her best behavior. “Sorry. What’d I miss?”

      He pursed his lips. “The assignments.” His exaggerated diction left no doubt of his disapproval.

      A knot formed in her stomach. Her editor had warned her about arriving late. Zinta had warned her about sleeping with her editor. She hadn’t paid attention to either. Zin claimed his pointed dark eyebrows, onyx eyes and black hair set off by an impeccably trimmed goatee gave him a devilish appearance deserving of his reputation. Billie thought he could pass for Soundgarden’s Chris Cornell in trendy business casual dress.

      Rocking back in his chair, steepling his fingers to his lips, no one here would be able to guess those lips had explored every inch of her all weekend. She’d tell him later how brilliant he’d acted. Better yet, she’d demonstrate her awe. Lack of sleep may have diminished her looks, but not Everett’s.

      “All of the assignments?” she ventured.

      “All but one.” Sipping his coffee, he concentrated on his cup.

      “Please tell me it’s half-decent. My fact-checking call kept me, or I swear I’d have been on time.” She grinned. “This time.” Hopefully she could sweet-talk her way out of trouble and back into his good graces.

      He drummed his fingers against the entertainment magazines strewn near his portfolio.

      The top cover caught her eye. “Oh, geez. Look at him. How pathetic.” She lifted it to study it.

      Jet Trently, muscled arms crossed over his smooth, chiseled chest. A red bandanna wrapped across his unruly layers of sandy blond hair, the only clothing in view with the photo cropped at his hips. Scantily clad girls draped across his arms and shoulders, glistening pink lips parted as if panting.

      Fifteen years ago, she’d have given anything to have been one of them. Then twenty, Jet had been one of the hottest guys on the planet. His rock ballads ruled the airwaves–and her CD player. The songs wound their way into her mind, her soul. She’d awakened singing them and fallen asleep humming them. But now, after hearing the same songs repeated ad nauseum on the radio, they grated her nerves. Though he continued to generate titillated energy among females wherever he went, Jet’s attempt at a musical comeback fell flat until he’d agreed to star in a reality show tracking his revived attempt–and his love life, of all things.

      Tilting the magazine to get a better view, she gave a tsk. “Rock Bottom–such an appropriate title. He needs a catapult to help him back from the depths. So is this the latest round of fawning women?” How could such an obviously popular guy have trouble finding love? He must get offers everywhere he traveled, but something about his cocky stance suggested little interest in the women pawing him. Her reporter’s instincts went into overdrive as she wondered what sort of female might appeal to him, if not the contestants.

      Zinta

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