Early March
John Harlan clutched a two-carat, brilliant-cut diamond
engagement ring in one hand and a Glenfiddich on the rocks
in the other, his third in the past hour. Cold had settled
in his bones, his heart, his soul. It probably didn't help
that he hadn't turned on the heat or even a lamp since
night fell hours ago. Only the lights of New York City
through his huge picture window illuminated his living
room, making a hazy silhouette of the bottle of scotch on
the coffee table. What more did he need to see than that,
anyway?
A few hours ago his fiancée — former fiancée — had gently
placed the diamond ring in his palm. He hadn't let go
since.
John had thought he knew and understood Summer Elliott.
She was goal-oriented and orderly, like him, and together
they were dynamic, a power couple with great lineage and
an amazing future. At twenty-nine, he was at a perfect age
for marriage, and at a perfect point in his career at his
advertising agency. Everything according to schedule.
She'd ended all possibility of a future together that
afternoon.
He hadn't seen it coming.
They'd dated for months, long enough to know the
relationship worked. They'd gotten engaged less than three
weeks ago, on Valentine's Day, appropriately,
romantically. And now, while he'd been in Chicago working
with a new client this past week, she'd found herself
another man — a rock star, of all people. Calm, sedate
Summer Elliott, the woman whose personality matched his,
had found herself a rock star.
John downed his scotch, relished the burn and was
contemplating another when the doorbell rang. He didn't
move. The bell rang again. He picked up the bottle and
poured, the ice from the previous drink almost melted.
Knuckles rapped on the door, and a female voice called his
name.
Summer? No. She wouldn't come here.
Curious, however, he set the glass on the table and stood,
taking a moment to shove his fingers through his hair and
to find his balance. Although it was uncharacteristic of
him to have more than a glass or two of wine in an
evening, he wasn't drunk. At least he didn't think so,
maybe just slightly off-kilter.
He opened his door and did a double take at the sight of
Summer standing at the elevator ten feet away, her back to
him.
"What are you doing?" he asked, squinting against the
light and stepping into the hall just as the elevator
pinged, indicating its arrival on the fifteenth floor, his
floor.
She spun to face him but said nothing. He registered that
she looked different in her short red dress, but couldn't
put his finger on exactly why. Her scintillating light
auburn air caught the light, the soft, natural curl
caressing her shoulders and drifting down her back. Her
light green eyes were focused directly on him, her
expression open and caring. Caring? Why should she care?
She'd dumped him. Unceremoniously. Emotionlessly.
Which pretty much defined their relationship. Emotionless.
Sexless. A partnership with a future based on a solid
friendship and healthy respect for each other, if without
passion. But he'd loved her and believed she'd loved him.
He'd always figured the passion part would fall into place
at some point, and had respected her wishes to save
herself for the marriage bed.
Had she realized her mistake in breaking it off with him?
Was that why she was here?
Why wasn't she talking? She'd come to see him, after all.
"Are you here to apologize?" he asked. Did he want her to
apologize?
"Made a mistake," she said so low he could barely hear
her. She walked toward him, her hand outstretched.
"A big mistake." Her fingertips grazed his chest, then she
pulled back as if burned, curling her fingers into a fist
that she pressed against her heart.
His gut tightened. Her touch had been light, but lethal to
his equilibrium. Hope tried to shove hours of hurt out of
the way. The hurt resisted giving way...until she reached
out again and was suddenly kissing him — kissing the hell
out of him. Caught off guard by her new, surreal level of
passion, he kissed her back until she moaned, even as a
cautionary voice in his head shouted at him not to forgive
the woman who'd never slept with him, her fiancé, yet
who'd given herself to a man she'd just met.
When she pressed her hips to his and moved against him, he
was grateful he hadn't had that fourth drink and could
still think clearly enough to know what to do next.
Resisting wasn't an option, even though he'd spent months
doing exactly that. Not this time, however. Not this time.
He scooped her into his arms, carried her to his bed and
laid her on the comforter, deciding that the reason she
looked different was that she'd come dressed to seduce
him — something she'd never done before.
An unexpected warmth spread through him at the thought
that she'd made that kind of effort for him.
"This is out of the blue," he said, turning the words into
a question, wanting to trust her motives, but afraid to.
What did it say about him if he so easily forgave her?
"I never expected to make love with you."
He frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Just that."
It wasn't an answer, but apparently it was all he was
going to get. Had the bad-boy rock star already dumped
her? Did it matter? Yes. But...but John wanted to show her
what she'd been missing as he'd reined himself in all
those months, honoring her self-imposed pledge of
chastity. His ego even demanded it.
He turned on a bedside lamp, pulled off his tie and un-
buttoned his shirt, his movements jerky. She wasn't
telling him to stop. She was really going through with it?
He shrugged off his shirt and tossed it aside, reached for
his belt buckle and pulled his belt out of the loops,
letting it drop to the floor, noticing her spiky red high
heels there, as well, a vivid reminder of the strangeness
of the evening. He'd never seen her wear heels that high,
which put her equal in height to him.
Equal. Was that the point? To make them equals? She'd
suddenly become aggressive, not merely assertive?
His jaw tightened painfully as he searched her face,
seeking answers to questions he didn't ask because he
wasn't sure he wanted the answers. Not only did she not
tell him to stop, she didn't even flinch and instead
studied his every move, not a hint of virginal shyness in
her eyes. He toed off his shoes, slipped his trousers down
and off, along with his socks.
His briefs were black and tight, had gone tighter in the
past few minutes. She made a leisurely inspection of him
that was more exciting than any kiss or touch he could
remember. She swallowed and lifted her eyes to meet his
again. Her nipples pressed against her dress. His heart
thundered; his fists clenched.
If he took off the briefs, would she run? She'd kept him
at arm's length for months and months, yet after she'd
slept with another man, she wanted him now? What kind of
sense did that make? Comparison? It was totally out of
character for her.
And if he slept with her now, would it be in forgive-
ness...or out of revenge? He wasn't sure if he even wanted
to find out, but an irrational force made him continue,
even knowing he might be shot down or stopped. Or
humiliated.
Except she'd said she'd made a mistake....
He pushed off the briefs. She rose to her knees and
reached out to touch him, her fingertips gliding down him
like warm, silky water. He sucked in a breath, knelt on
the bed and peeled her formfitting dress over her head,
discovering a red lacy bra and matching thong underneath.
He pushed the satin straps down her arms, the weight of
her breasts taking the fabric temptingly lower, the lace
hanging up on her nipples. Her lemony scent drifted up to
him.
His mouth went dry. He'd imagined Summer as a white-bra-
and-panties woman....
He lifted his gaze to hers as he laid his palms on her
breasts, feeling the smooth, warm firmness of her flesh,
the heels of his hands grazing her hard nipples. She was
so different from what he'd expected. So sexy. So willing.
So...
So not Summer. "Scarlet?" he managed to ask, taking his
hands away, sure of her identity even as he asked the
question. No wonder she was different. Not Summer, but her
identical twin sister. Scarlet had a wild reputation, but
he never would've guessed she would pretend to be her
sister. What purpose did it serve? She'd always been
standoffish with him, as if she didn't like him.
She sat back, confusion in her eyes. "Have you ever seen
Summer wear a dress like that?"
He could tell her he was three-quarters drunk, but it
would seem like an insult. "I thought she'd come to seduce
me."
Scarlet's lack of answer could mean anything. He wouldn't
try to second-guess her.
Mistaken identities aside, he was acutely aware that his
arousal hadn't suffered at the recognition of Summer's
twin. If anything, the shock of the revelation excited him
even more, though he didn't stop to determine why — didn't
want to determine why, except he'd endured a long
abstinence.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, tired of waiting,
frustrated by her actions and his own wayward thoughts.
She rose to her knees again and set her hands on his
chest. For several endless seconds their gazes
locked. "Does it matter?"
Not at the moment, but soon it would probably matter a
lot. Her words about never expecting to make love with him
echoed in his head. "You hadn't intended to make love?
Then what —"
"Maybe you shouldn't be thinking so hard," she said,
drawing him closer.
Her touch erased all thoughts, banished all doubts, and he
let go of his curiosity and kissed her instead. He forgot
about Summer and opened himself up to Scarlet....
Scarlet, who made incredibly sexy, needy sounds that
vibrated from her throat, whose hands wandered over his
body as he sought her in the same way. He flicked open her
bra, tossed it aside, captured a nipple between his lips,
then tongued the hard contours before drawing it into his
mouth and savoring as she arched her back, her fingernails
digging into him to keep her balance. He took as much care
with her other breast, but need pounded him relentlessly,
especially when she wrapped her hand around him as he
throbbed and ached.
He jerked back, trying to slow down. This was probably the
stupidest thing he'd done in his life, but he couldn't
stop — Yes, he could. He just didn't want to.
He set his hands on her waist to help her stand, then he
eased her thong down her legs. Grasping his head, she
leaned over to kiss him, kissed him as he'd never been
kissed before, with lips and teeth and tongue, until he
couldn't wait another second. He shoved her onto her back
and moved her thighs apart. He watched as he entered her,
clenched his teeth at the hot tightness that enveloped
him, felt her contract, heard her long, low moan that
quickly escalated in volume and tempo. He squeezed his
eyes shut, holding back, waiting for her, then he exploded
inside her. Sensation bombarded him, starting deep and low
then racing through his body, even into his mind, blocking
everything but feeling, hot, overwhelming feeling. It was
good. She was good. Incredible....
He resisted the return of logic and sanity, which came
regardless of his wishes. He rolled onto his back and
stared at the ceiling. She lay silent beside him. Silent
and still. He couldn't even hear her breathe. Her perfume
mingled with the earthy smell of sex. He wouldn't soon
forget it.
He would never forget it.
He turned toward her —
The mattress jiggled as she rolled away from him and off
the bed. She gathered up her clothes and hurried to his
bathroom, shutting the door.
Shutting him out.