“Jack fucking Sullivan.”

  His eyes snapped up. His sister was marching up to him, slapping her smartphone against her palm, her lips set in a tight line, her nostrils flaring. She wore a short skirt and high-heeled boots. Jack noticed Nate checking out her legs before he too looked up at Casey, her blond hair bouncing high in a ponytail.

  Nate raised an eyebrow. “Looks like someone is in trouble with his little sister.”

  “What else is new,” Jack mumbled.

  When she stopped, she stabbed him in the chest. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Jack gave her a confused look. “Tell you what?”

  “Yeah. Tell him what?” Nate chimed in, staring at Jack and playing along with Casey’s indignation.

  “Oh hi, Nate,” she said in a normal tone, shooting a friendly smile to his buddy.

  “Hey, Case. Good to see you.”

  When she turned back to Jack, her eyes narrowed again, and he swore he could see smoke billowing out of her ears.

  Nate must have too. He cleared his throat and clapped Jack on the back. “Looks like you two have lots of catching up to do,” he said then tipped an imaginary hat to Casey, whose expression softened once more for Nate as he said goodbye and turned the corner. Casey glared at Jack.

  “What do you want to chew me out for, Case?” he asked, holding his hands out wide. He had no idea what her deal was.

  Stabbing her finger at her phone, she said, “Why didn’t you tell me you were screwing your shrink?”

  His jaw dropped and his eyes widened. He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d said she was joining the circus. “What?”

  “Right here. It’s on Page Six.” She pointed to the phone once more, brandishing it like a weapon. He peered at the screen to see a post on a NY tabloid paper.

  “Allow me,” Casey continued. “One of NYC’s most eligible bachelors, Jack Sullivan, was spotted having dinner with a lovely brunette at Sushi Den near the Chrysler Building. The brunette was later identified as Michelle Milo, and a quick Google tells us she’s a psychologist who specializes in intimate relationships. Can you hear the weeping and gnashing of teeth of all the single women in New York? Is she catering to your intimate pleasures, Jack? If she doesn’t, we will!”

  He seethed. He’d never been bothered by the things the press said. He’d never cared. Not about himself, and not about Aubrey. They were both used to it. They didn’t even notice. But Michelle belonged to him, not the public eye. He hated that she’d been thrust there without her permission.

  “Jack,” Casey said in a measured voice, “This was not the plan when I made that appointment. How did this happen?”

  “Oh, right,” he said addressing his sister’s concerns. “She’s not my shrink. I told you that. Weirdly enough, I met her before the appointment and neither one of us knew who the other was, and then when I realized who she was the next day, we agreed I’d see someone else.”

  “But you’re seeing her?” she asked skeptically.

  “Yes.”

  “Romantically?”

  Sexually, he wanted to add. But somehow, romantically fit too.

  “I suppose you could call it that.”

  “And you like her?”

  “Well, yeah,” he admitted.

  Then Casey squealed, her expression shifting instantly, and she jumped up and down. She threw her arms around Jack. “I can’t believe you met someone you like. I’m so happy.”

  He hugged her back. “Let’s not get too excited.”

  “I am, though. I am.” She pulled back. “I want you to be happy.”

  He was finding that he was with Michelle. Which meant he was sure to fuck it up sooner or later. Knowing himself, he’d be betting on sooner.

  * * *

  Casey had become a stalker. Later that afternoon she trekked to Conroy’s block to conduct some recon. By three-thirty, she’d paced up and down his street too many times to count. Found nothing. The door to his brownstone had remained closed. She’d snapped a few photos and sent them to her brother with silly captions.

  But even if Conroy had emerged, what did she hope to learn? That he wore red pumps on a Saturday afternoon? That he had a mistress he was stupid enough to screw at his own house? She wasn’t a private detective and snooping had never been her forte. She’d tracked down everything interesting she could find online and that had still amounted to a whole lot of nothing.

  Besides, Denkler’s people had access to the same Internet and they’d found nothing either.

  She left, shaking her head at herself, annoyed that she was coming up short as she tried to gumshoe it on her own. It made her crazy that somehow this politician had decided to go after the clubs they supplied, turning sexual pleasures into the bogeyman of the election. She walked up Third Avenue, yanking out the ponytail holder in her hair then redoing it.

  Maybe she didn’t know how to run counterintelligence like her brother did. But Joy Delivered was her baby too, and she’d find a way to protect her business somehow. Fine, in the grand scheme of things, she wasn’t saving the whales or solving world hunger. She was damn skilled, though, at selling pleasure, because she was a big believer in the power of intimacy, and its potential to do good. The world was a nasty, violent place, and if she could bring about happiness through more orgasms, then that was her small contribution. More pleasure instead of more cruelty. More bliss to blot out the urge to do harm. The world would be a better place if people made love, not war.

  That’s why this battle mattered to her.

  She headed in the direction of Henry and Marquita’s clubs. For a sliver of a second, she hoped she’d see Conroy, or maybe even his campaign manager, slipping out through the black unmarked door, furtively glancing side to side, trying desperately not to get caught having indulged in that particular predilection on a Saturday afternoon.

  She laughed privately at that image. How fitting would that be? Also, how convenient. Life didn’t work that way. She wasn’t going to catch Conroy with his pants down and a whip in his hand. No, that’d be too easy. That’d be the answer out of a TV script. Not real life.

  As she walked away, she spotted a campaign flyer resting atop a trashcan. For a better Upper East Side. She stuck out her tongue at it, but then as she boarded a subway to head to her downtown apartment, an idea sparked.

  This guy was all about the marketing. Maybe she couldn’t dig up the dirt, but she could go toe to toe with anyone when it came to marketing.

  * * *

  “Are you sure I can’t interest you two in a Long-Distance Lover?”

  Julia directed the question to Michelle’s brother and his wife, Jill.

  “Because I’ll need it to get through the next few weeks?” Davis asked.

  “Of course. Think of it as sublimation for when your wife leaves town for a month,” Julia said, that familiar playful tone in her voice as she handed him a scotch.

  Michelle was at Speakeasy, the bar in midtown that Julia was part-owner of. Michelle didn’t come around here too often, but her brother had asked her to join in a send-off round of drinks for Jill on Saturday afternoon. She was headed to London to rehearse for a limited run in a production of A Streetcar Named Desire, and Davis was staying behind to finish up his work directing a new Broadway show.

  “If a drink can get me through that, I’ll take ten,” he said, then planted a long and lingering kiss on Jill’s lips.

  “Make that a double for me,” Jill said when he pulled apart.

  “The drink or the kiss?” Michelle asked, doing her best to fit in and be a part of the celebration. That task was all the more challenging since Clay was there too, looking as handsome as ever. He had on his Saturday attire—jeans, a button-down shirt, and an unshaven jaw. She winced, some part of her hurting for knowing these details, especially since his eyes were on Julia the whole time as she mixed another one of her signature cocktails for him. Michelle could still remember the night Julia first whipped up the Long-Distance Lover here at Speakeasy before it opened, during a late-night poker game. That was back before Julia had moved to New York from San Francisco, back when Michelle was dating Liam, back when she was still madly in love with Clay.

  He hadn’t even known how she felt about him. Julia had been the one to figure it out. That had made it all the more embarrassing.

  Julia set down the drink for him, whispered something in his ear, then laughed, and gave the drink to Jill instead, who promptly declared it delicious.

  “And what will you be serving me tonight?” Clay asked his wife.

  She leaned in closer, and mouthed the word myself.

  He raised an eyebrow appreciatively. “My favorite drink.”

  “But for now, a scotch,” she said and poured the amber liquid in a glass for her husband.

  Michelle waited for that familiar stabbing pain that came from watching them and their innuendo. A wince inside. An ache in her chest that hurt. But none of those feelings arrived on the scene. She felt nothing at all. Thankfully. That realization—of the lack of pain their interaction caused—was a rather lovely one.

  Julia turned to Michelle, holding up the bottle in question. “Scotch for you, Michelle?”

  “That’d be great,” she said. Julia remembered her favorite drink too. She shouldn’t be surprised. The woman was a bartender. It was her job to remember drinks. Still, Michelle was touched.

  Julia handed her the drink, and said in a voice just for her, “I’m glad you’re here. And incidentally, you have some kind of glow about you, so if you’re using some new moisturizer, I need to know what it is. Your skin looks gorgeous.”

  Michelle smiled, then blushed. “Thank you,” she said, and even though she hadn’t seen Jack yet today, she knew exactly what Julia was referring to. Sex—great sex—was good for the complexion.

  As she took her first drink, savoring the familiar burn of the scotch, she pictured Jack here with her. Would he fit in with her brother and his wife, with Clay and Julia? Would she even want him to? They’d only spent time alone together, never with anyone else. Their relationship—if you could even call it that—existed in a bubble of privacy and secrets. Of nights together and days apart. Would they even play well together with friends? With family? What did he wear on a Saturday afternoon? She imagined Jack sitting casually on the stool next to her, looking sexy as sin in a pullover shirt that showed off the slightest bit of his strong arms and jeans that fit him delectably. He’d drape an arm around her, unable to resist touching her, because he was like that. He’d chat with her brother about the theater and musical composers, he’d talk with Clay about his latest deal, he’d ask Jill if she’d always wanted to play Blanche, he’d ask Julia for a drink recommendation, and then he’d happily take what she served, his eyes on Michelle the entire time.

  He’d fit in, she decided, and he’d be with her. Only her.

  As she looked at her friends, she could see him there—part of the crew, but yet entirely hers.

  A few minutes later, her phone buzzed.

  J: How’s your Saturday? Are you having a good day?

  M: Great. Just hanging out with friends and family, having a drink.

  J: Enjoy yourself, beautiful. Missing you. Will I see you soon?

  M: Yes. Very soon.

  She tucked her phone back into her purse.

  “What have you been up to lately?” Jill asked her. “We haven’t seen you around much.”

  The corner of Michelle’s lips quirked up, but she tried to rein in her secret grin. “Oh, this and that,” she said, and then the conversation turned again to London, and to Jill’s show, and that was fine with Michelle as she listened to them chat.

  When her eyes landed briefly on Clay, she saw him anew. She saw him as he was when she’d first met him. A friend. While she could certainly recognize he was good-looking, empirically so, he was no longer the man she pined after. She was seeing him, but she wasn’t seeing only him anymore.

  Somewhere inside of her, a heavy brick had been moved. A weight had been shifted. Her heart was no longer pinned down and foolishly handed over to someone who didn’t care for all she had to give. It felt like hers again. And she could do with it what she wanted.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Peaches and Lace

  The words dissolved on his tongue the second he saw her.

  Page Six and the snarky comments were erased from his brain when he spotted her walking up Madison, big sunglasses over her eyes, a few strands of her brown hair whipping across her cheek from the late afternoon breeze. She moved her hand to brush them away, and the sight of her was breathtaking. She wasn’t wearing a sexy outfit like yesterday at his office, when she’d arrived in heels, a pencil skirt, and a tight shirt. No, today she simply wore jeans, and a short-sleeved shirt, but she stunned him nonetheless. Everyone around him could have vanished—she was all he saw.

  Walking toward him.

  Waving.

  Smiling.

  Happy.

  God, he didn’t want to let her down.

  He didn’t want to let her go. He was a selfish bastard for wanting to keep her even when he could never give her what she deserved.

  She stopped outside the store, her hand reaching toward him, fingering a bit of fabric from his pullover shirt. “Is this what you wore today?”

  He eyed her curiously. “Yeah. It’s not only what I wore, it’s also what I’m wearing.”

  “It’s what I pictured you in,” she said, her lips curving up.

  “You were thinking of me?” he asked, and his heart thumped harder.

  “Yes,” she said, nodding to the lingerie store where they’d met up. “Now buy me some panties to replace the ones you ruined yesterday.”

  Just hearing the word panties on her lips made him hard. He growled and tugged her in for a quick, searing kiss, her lips parting, her mouth opening as he made contact. He’d never tire of the way she responded to him. Then it hit him. Never. Why the hell was he thinking in absolutes?

  He broke the kiss, clasped her hand, and led her into the store. Hetty’s Secret Closet was a high-end lingerie store he’d walked past yesterday. Once inside, Manhattan disappeared, and they were in a pink and white boutique surrounded by silks, satins, and chiffons, by reds, blacks and peaches, and by a lavender scent that was overwhelmingly feminine. Soft music that sounded like Sade or some other sexy songstress piped overhead, and the air-conditioning hummed low, keeping the store cool, not too chilly.

  Michelle perused the racks of camisoles, casting sexy eyes at him as she held up different items. He clenched his fists so he wouldn’t pounce on her. He wanted her so much.

  A saleswoman walked across the carpet, her steps so soft it was as if she was gliding. She was young, blond and pretty, and he didn’t give a shit how she looked, because his arm was around Michelle’s waist, and she was the only woman he wanted to see in a bra and panties, and out of a bra and panties.

  “May I help you find something?” the saleswoman asked.

  He didn’t look away from Michelle as he answered. “I want something for this stunning woman I can’t take my eyes off of,” he said, and watched as a red flush spread across Michelle’s cheeks.

  “Jack,” she whispered.

  “It’s true.”

  “A cami? A teddy? A lingerie set?”

  “The last one,” Jack said.

  “Any particular color?”

  He flashed back to the black pair he’d sliced off. The color truly didn’t matter. He wanted to devour her in any color. He wanted to lick her from head to toe, to eat her, to taste every inch of her, whether she wore stripes or polka dots or solids.

  “Anything,” he said.

  Soon, the saleswoman had selected a white demi-cup bra with matching panties, as well as one in peach, and one in dark blue.

  “If you’d like to wait by the dressing rooms, we have a very comfortable chair outside them,” the saleswoman said as she guided them to the back of the store. She unlocked one of the two rooms, holding open the beige scalloped door, and hanging the items on a hook. There was a full-length mirror in a gilded frame on the wall. “I’ll check back in a few minutes and see if you need anything,” she said, and then returned to the front of the boutique.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll show you how it looks. Be a good boy and sit and wait,” Michelle said, gesturing to the chair before she shut the door.

  “Waiting is hard,” he said in a low voice as he sank down into the soft cushiony chair.

  “I bet it’s hard,” he heard her say from the dressing room, and she was so right. His dick was like steel, knocking against his fly, eager to be freed. He ached with wanting her; his mouth watered as he imagined her skimming off her jeans, tugging off her top, sliding on the lacy underthings.

  He drew a deep breath, his lungs burning with desire for her.

  The door creaked, and she peeked out. “Come see,” she whispered, and in an instant, he was standing, walking, stepping into the tiny dressing room with a cushioned stool in the corner. She was hidden behind the door, and when she shut it, closing them into the small space, his heart tripped over itself.

  She was so fucking beautiful. Peach lace hugged her curves, the tops of those luscious breasts luring him in like beacons of desire. He wanted to look everywhere at once, to touch all of her, to slam her against the wall and take her.

  To savor her.

  His eyes roamed her, landing on the underwear. A small section of white peeked out on the side. She must have left on a thong as she tried on the peach panties. “I had a feeling I’d be getting wet, so I left these on,” she said, tugging at the side.

  “Are you? Wet?”

  She nodded as she licked her lips. “I am. With the way you look at me.”

  “I can’t stop looking at you,” he whispered, moving closer, running a hand down her bare arm, feeling goose bumps rise on her flesh. She gasped as he touched her. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

  She shook her head as his fingers made their way to the soft flesh of her belly.