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
