Dedication

  For Tiffany Reisz, my literary Siren and favorite kind of girl trouble.

  Chapter One

  Kat St. James opened her eyes and saw two other naked bodies in bed with her. It wasn’t an unheard-of circumstance, but not being able to remember their names put her at a distinct disadvantage. She held very still to avoid waking up Blond and Blondie and racked her brain to puzzle out the fuzzy details. Just trying to think kicked off a headache that began in the center of her spine and reached for her eyelashes.

  She remembered upside-down margaritas in the kitchen and cigarettes, lots of them, which certainly explained the tequila-and-dead-ashtray taste in her mouth. Her cast mates had been delighted to pour again and again, and Kat couldn’t blame them for wanting to drown her. She had been a straight-up bitch during the shooting of Proprietors.

  Her memory ran in flashes over the evening, filling in more painful details. Blond and Blondie had arrived together. Blond was a grip—she’d worked with him a few times. She hadn’t recognized the woman, but Blondie’s fresh-faced beauty had stolen her breath. Lust had pulsed through her veins at the exact rate of the alcohol in her blood. She tried to leave the good girls alone. They were too tempting. But booze had stripped away her good intentions. It always did. Good old tequila.

  Blond had been on the patio with Cindy, Kat’s body double. From the back, Kat and Cindy were identical, but Cindy couldn’t compete with Kat in a full-frontal comparison, and they both knew it. Kat prowled closer.

  “Hey, Cindy, enjoying the party?” Kat kept her eyes on the tall, blond man.

  “You bet, Kat. You always throw great parties. Love the band.”

  “Uh-huh.” She flashed the practiced grin that had made her famous—part devil, part dare, but mostly just pure fun. She was fun, and the raw appreciation glowing in Blond’s eyes and the tequila firing her blood told her he’d like to have some. His arm slid around her waist, signaling he’d be more than willing to disappear with her, but that wasn’t what Kat had in mind.

  “Let’s find your girlfriend,” she whispered in his ear.

  On cue, the woman appeared in the doorway. She was backlit, smooth, corn-silk hair glowing like a halo around her shadowed face as she walked toward them. Kat felt her nipples tighten and her pussy tingle. Oh, God, Blondie was so close…almost perfect.

  “Let’s go, kids,” Kat said to the pair. Her arms had felt light as an angel’s forgiveness as she circled their waists and led them up the back stairs to her bedroom.

  Jesus Christ. That certainly explained everything, didn’t it?

  Kat carefully rolled over and eyed the sleeping woman.

  In the light of day, she was still pretty. Beautiful, even by LA standards. Her skin was flawless and peachy. Her hair was a near-perfect dye job, highlights, lowlights, the whole shebang. Her breasts were real, her nipples pale brown and soft. She curled in to her boyfriend’s side, one leg nestled between his. Clearly, she was used to being there.

  Kat didn’t feel the slightest desire to touch her. In the dark, with all that tequila singing through her veins, the woman had been close enough. This morning, with a crippling case of the hangover blues pressing down on her like a lead blanket, Blondie and boyfriend were just another reminder of who Kat really wanted and didn’t have.

  She threw back the covers and gave the bed a hard bounce as she sat up. The couple stirred. By the red streaking their eyes, she figured they might also have a few lucky gaps in their memories. They blinked, gazes darting around the room and settling, uncomprehendingly, on her naked body. Kat stretched her arms over her head, adopting an attitude of supreme, unselfconscious well-being.

  “Last night was a blast,” she lied softly. “I hate to throw you out, but I’ve got a reading in an hour.” She leaned over to kiss Bob—that was his name—on the mouth. She kissed the woman on the cheek, closing her eyes for an instant. Self-loathing tightened her throat, so she stood and flashed another smile. “Take your time grabbing your things. My staff is accustomed to guests.” It was a warning designed to put them at ease while encouraging them to leave.

  She felt their eyes on her naked back with every step she took toward the bathroom. As she shut the door behind her, she heard them burst into laughter. She ran a bath, hoping the Jacuzzi jets would blast away her acute self-hatred.

  Depression plagued her for the rest of the day. It ruined her reading, killed her appetite and destroyed her desire to do anything productive. She knew her state of mind was alcohol induced and temporary, but that didn’t help her shitty mood. The only thing that would cure her was time and a good night’s rest, but it was barely dark, way too early to go to bed, especially when she would lie awake with her memories. She paced the length of her living room and stopped at the well-stocked bar in the corner. Hair of the dog? Maybe just one teeny, tiny hair.

  She tossed back a shot of tequila and considered another. One shot was medicinal. Two would make her want three. Three would have her making phone calls, and four would make tomorrow feel like today. She put the bottle back on the shelf and dropped onto the most comfortable couch in the living room. She closed her eyes and covered her face with her arm, sighing loudly, just for effect.

  “Ms. St. James?”

  She let her arm flop down to her side and opened one eye, beadily.

  Her housekeeper was standing in the doorway. “There’s a taxi at the gate. The driver insists his passenger will be a welcome guest.” From her tone, it was clear Mrs. Clarke was not so certain.

  Clarke was old school. She did not approve of unexpected arrivals of any kind, and that was part of why they got along so well. Kat knew she could bring home whomever she pleased, and after they cleared the gate on their way out, they wouldn’t get back in without her express permission. She was fairly well convinced Clarke had a brass pair hanging beneath her starched apron. Inexplicably, the middle-aged housekeeper had a soft spot for Kat, who she claimed was not beyond hope of rehabilitation.

  “Well? Who is it?”

  Clarke didn’t bat an eye at Kat’s peremptory tone. Nothing short of a hundred decibels could ruffle her scales. “Bonita Pritchard.”

  Kat’s hangover disappeared in an instant. Adrenaline shot through her veins. It made her heart race, her mouth dry and her fingertips ice cold.

  “Finally.” Her exultant tone drew a raised eyebrow from the starched Mrs. Clarke. “Let her in.”

  Bonita stiffened as the taxi accelerated around the hairpin curves of Kat’s long driveway. When they crested the top of the hill, she caught sight of the enormous house and was relieved to see it was situated on firm ground, not hanging over the edge of a cliff, supported by tall struts, like so many of the homes they had passed on their way through the Hollywood Hills.

  The driver screeched to a stop in front of the house. She felt no impact, but a fiery crash was coming. She had set it in motion the moment she decided to leave Come Again, the sex shop she owned, in Crystal’s capable hands and left Norton. She’d picked up speed when she got on the plane, and now that she was on the ground in California, every moment before she saw Kat reminded her of the swift slide on the airport runway before the brakes engaged. The only question was whether Kat would hit the brakes or drop a lit match just as Bonita reached her door.

  One could never tell with Kat.

  Bonita released her seat belt. Should she ask the driver to wait? The old Bonita Pritchard would have him stay until she was sure she didn’t need a ride back to the airport. But this new Bonita was feeling decidedly optimistic. Well, optimistic for her, which was more like fatalistic but forging ahead anyway.

  “Last chance, Beauty. Come and get me.” A husky whisper, a lighthearted challenge left on her voicemail. It put her on edge, just as it did every time Kat called her out to play. This time her siren song had called Bonita across the entire country.

  She leaned forward and paid her fare. “You can go. I’ll be fine.” Probably. Maybe. She scrubbed her knuckles across her cheeks and rubbed her eyes, a niggling, gypsy fear stealing around the edges of her mind. Kat didn’t know she was coming. She could be working late or partying with a houseful of people. Heck, she could even be out of the country.

  The driver got her bag out of the trunk and left it under one of the two palm trees that flanked the front walkway. He jumped back into the taxi and zipped down the driveway. Before Bonita could really consider her half-formed plan of throwing up in the astonishing, brightly tiled fountain, two uniformed security guards appeared, no doubt notified by the other goons at the front gate.

  “Good evening, Miss. We’ll need to see your bag before you enter the house.” Bonita suppressed a giggle at being called “Miss”. The security guard was all of twenty-something to her round thirty. She said nothing as they waved their metal-detecting wands around her body and checked her bag, instead focusing on the calming gurgles and the truly stunning Talavera tile work of the fountain.

  “Thank you, Miss.” The guard rang the bell for her and nodded politely, then silently disappeared around the side of the house with his partner. Without a warning sound, the front door swung open.

  Bonita stared at Kat.

  She was ten times more beautiful than she had been in her last movie. Twenty times more magnetic. And about a hundred times more distant. Each film took her further out of reach.

  The reality of their situation ripped into Bonita with the punishing lash of a whip. She had been foolish to come here.

  “Hello, Beauty.” Kat’s voice was pitched for privacy, and

she wrapped her tongue around the words as if she could taste them, teeth flashing.

  Saliva rushed to Bonita’s mouth, and blood rushed everywhere else, her long-standing, automatic reaction to being near Kat. She wanted her, immediately, hopelessly and helplessly, any way she could get her. She was drawn to Kat’s fearlessness. Her beauty. Her bad-girl, gonna-fuck-you-’til-you-drop, bone-deep sensuality that was so different from Bonita’s restrained desires.

  She tried to tune all of that out and focus on the not-so-hopeless part. Kat had long ago chosen her career over love, but Bonita didn’t need love. She just needed Kat once in a while.

  She swallowed. “You answer your own door? I’m impressed.” Oh hell, three years of virtual silence and the best she could come up with was lame sarcasm? That wasn’t what she’d meant to say at all.

  “Don’t be. I knew it was you.” Kat tossed her head. Her inky-black hair rained over her proud shoulders. Kat’s hair had been an untamable mane since childhood. Even when her mother had been able to catch her and hold her down, she had never been able to get a brush through all of it. “Come on in, little Beauty.”

  “I’m not little.” Bonita squared her shoulders.

  “No, but you’ll always be younger than I am. I like to keep you in your place.”

  “Two months, Kat. Two months younger than you.” Bonita tried to brush by her, but Kat put a lazy hand on her bare arm. Her jasmine scent made Bonita dizzy with longing, so she held her breath. At least once a month, she would wake from a dream and swear she could smell the warm, seductive scent on her pillow.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me hello? How long has it been?” Kat asked.

  “You know as well as I do how long it’s been.” She stumbled over the words. Why did Kat always do this to her? Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. Her brain couldn’t quite bridge the synapses. Her skin felt dry and taut. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Kat’s dark gaze.

  “Aside from polite e-mails and skillfully timed voice messages, I’m positive that I haven’t heard from you in three years, darling.” Kat let a bit of Western New York slip into her voice. “And you never answer when I call. Caller ID has given me a fucking complex.”

  Kat held her hostage in the doorway, stroking her arms and making the hairs stand on end. Bonita’s breath whooshed out of her lungs. This was why she kept her distance. Being near Kat was dangerous to her self-control. Yet here she was, square in the lioness’s den, planning to bait her, no less. She was a total masochist.

  “I’m here, Kat,” she said quietly. “Can’t that be enough for now? Can’t I just be here? With you? Can’t we spend some time together?”

  “Of course, Beauty.” Kat drew Bonita into the house and shut the door behind her. There was more of the pretty tile in the entryway, textured terra cotta inset with smaller, more intricately designed squares. Hardwood floors stretched beyond the tiled foyer, and to the left, a carved wood staircase with a wrought-iron railing hinted at more grandeur above.

  For a moment Bonita thought she was safe. Then Kat’s lush curves trapped her against the door. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed our games. You’ve always been my most responsive audience.”

  “Kat,” Bonita began, her voice leaden with warning, but she couldn’t get another word out before Kat pushed away from her.

  “Don’t.” Kat turned her back and walked to the wide stairway that seemed to extend to the heavens. “Come on. I have something to show you.”

  Excitement burned in Kat’s eyes, but Bonita also sensed loneliness and a black weariness that broke her heart. She could ignore an insult and resist a dare, but she could never walk away when Kat truly needed her. At this moment, Kat could have been asking her to join her in hell, and Bonita would have said yes, just to keep her company.

  Tough Kat. Beautiful Kat. Selfish Kat.

  Bonita had watched her transformation from afar, driven back every so often, yes, just like that dumbass moth after the flame, to get the thrill that only Kat could give her. And every time Bonita had subsequently run like hell. She was as captivated by Kat’s unbelievable beauty as the rest of the world, but she had never been fooled into believing her harmless façade.

  Bonita stepped forward and took the hand Kat offered. Desire juxtaposed with fear rushed through her. It was a heady mix, especially when it was followed by the sure knowledge that nothing short of nuclear war could stop them from making love.

  Match lit.

  The unique scent of jasmine and musk washed over her. She caught the edge of liquor on Kat’s breath, rising from her skin. Bonita’s eyelids dipped shut for a moment, instant memory heating her skin.

  “What?” Kat’s voice was husky.

  “You smell like booze, like you did the night of my parents’ funeral.”

  “I raided your liquor cabinet while I was waiting for you. Took you forever to get home.”

  Their progress up the stairs was slow, arms linked, hips bumping with every step, as if having made the physical connection they were afraid to stop touching each other.

  “What made you wait for me at the house that night?” Bonita probed.

  Kat stopped at the top of the stairs. Irritation made her eyes flash like black diamonds. “You were dead on your feet at the funeral home.” Kat shrugged off her poor choice of words. “You needed someone to come home to. I wanted it to be me. Your chaste little funeral suit was driving me crazy, anyway. I couldn’t go back to California without seeing what you had on under that boring black suit.”

  “You might have considered wearing a little black yourself,” Bonita said.

  “I did!”

  “Underwear doesn’t count.”

  “The red dress was too much? People expect that shit from a movie star. I can get away with it.”

  “Kitty Kat—” the pet name had slipped out, “—I hate to remind you, but you were hardly a movie star back then. I had to make excuses to about fifty aunts for your flaming scarlet ensemble. My parents would have flipped.”

  “Exactly.”

  Bonita held up a hand. “Stop—I’m sorry I brought it up.”

  Kat laughed and lazily tugged the band from Bonita’s hair. A bolt of pure liquid lust hit her in the knees as Kat’s fingers feathered over her cheek.

  “Come on.” Kat dragged her down the hall into an enormous bedroom. She ignored the giant four-poster bed in the middle of the room and pulled Bonita over to the closet.

  Kat unlocked the door and pulled it open. “Get in.”

  “Is this a lesbian joke?” Bonita asked.

  “Not even close, sweetie. I did warn you. Three years is a long time to make a girl wait.”

  “Kat, I’m not going to let you lock me in a closet to get revenge for unreturned phone calls.”

  “It isn’t a closet. Get in.” Kat hit the light switch on the wall.

  Intrigued, Bonita walked forward. Beyond the double-hung rack of designer clothes, Bonita could see space and a dim light. “What have you got back here? Narnia?” She pushed the clothes aside. Kat crowded in behind her and pulled the door shut, urging Bonita through the tiers of clothes.

  “Keep going,” Kat said.

  The softly lit room behind the closet was approximately fifteen by twenty feet, modest dimensions for the walk-in closet of a clothes-hound movie star. However, it was far from a traditional closet. A wall-mounted rack held a variety of feathers, paddles and crops, and next to it, a wooden coat tree was strung with a rainbow of lingerie.

  A flat-screen TV took up most of another wall, and the room was furnished with bondage equipment. A freestanding sex swing dominated one corner. In the opposite corner a huge vinyl cushion, roughly the size of a twin mattress, called to Bonita like the surface of a shiny black lake. It was one of the most expensive, and most popular, items sold at Come Again. Just seeing it made her want to lie down on its double-curved surface, spread her legs, and fit her wrists and ankles into the cuffs. But the thing that really held her attention was the padded black leather table in the center of the room.

  “You have a dungeon in your closet.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Bonita bit her lower lip, crossed her arms and pressed her legs together to staunch the rising flood between her thighs. “I don’t know what to say.”

 

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