Chapter One
Brenna Halsted’s fingers trembled as she clicked on her inbox and a response email from Madame Evangeline appeared. She had never done anything so insane in her life, but she needed a mental boost, something to break through the months of pain and emotional stress. Something to carry her away from the past and into the future.
She almost deleted the message without reading it. What the hell was she thinking? Runway models did not hire a dating service to find a bed partner.
You’re not runway material anymore. Her fingers shook again as she traced the scar running from her right eye to her lip. More lines and ridges decorated her upper chest where shattered glass had torn once-flawless skin. The physical pain had faded but never actually left—an unruly guest that refused to go away.
Her phone rang as she stared at the monitor. You have a date. She answered the cell without checking ID. “Brenna.”
The deep rumble of Drew Constantine’s laughter floated through the phone. “Hey, beautiful. You sound distracted.”
His casual endearment wrenched her heart. The nickname no longer fit; they both knew it. “Hey, hot stuff. Guess what just arrived in my email?”
“An invitation to grace the cover of Sports Illustrated’s Swimsuit Edition?”
Resentment for the prize she could never achieve burned in her throat. “You’re an ass, Drew.”
“Damn it, Brenna. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know. Don’t stress it.” Her best friend, a cover model extraordinaire, forgot sometimes that the accident had literally slashed her from his world. He would never be intentionally hurtful. She tipped back in her chair with the phone tucked under her chin and twisted opened a water while she sought composure.
“So, have you read the email yet, or are you sitting there contemplating erasing it?”
A laugh burst from her. “You know me too well.”
“I do.” He paused and cleared his throat, as if he had something lodged in it. “You know, that’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh since….”
She sat up and put the bottle on the desk. No way in hell was she going to get into another sappy, I-miss-my-smiling-Brenna conversation with him. “Do you want to hear what it says?”
“Yeah, wait though. I’m in the elevator. I’ll be there in a second.”
A quick glance at her braless state beneath a ratty wife beater and the faded Senor Frog’s boxer shorts she’d worn for two days made her cringe. “Seriously? Geez, Drew. You could give me some warning. I look like crap.”
“Somehow, I doubt that. Your apartment maybe, but not you.”
She assessed the great room. An empty tissue box, along with half a bottle of Chardonnay and a dirty wine glass, left over from the previous night’s crying jag, littered the end table. Her morning cereal bowl and coffee cup sat beside the sink. Otherwise, the area looked pretty clean. “Actually, the place looks better than usual. I vacuumed and picked up yesterday.”
“Amazing.” He laughed again, and the sensual sound hit her from two directions—tickling her ear through the phone and preceding him as he let himself in the front door. Drew strolled toward her with his usual cocky demeanor. Even the act of disconnecting the phone and sliding it into his pocket sent out erotic vibes. A lush, golden lion’s mane—too thick and soft to belong on a man’s head—brushed his shoulders and framed his gorgeous blue eyes. A shadow beard accented the sharp angles of the face that had made him millions before he was twenty-one. Snug jeans rode low on his hips, and a pearl-grey designer T-shirt she recognized from his last photo shoot gave him the look of an international playboy. At twenty-eight, he wore arrogance like a second skin, but beneath it lay the tender and compassionate heart of her friend.
Brenna studied him, and a pang of regret that she had never let him closer than a hug seared through her. Too late now for shouldas. “You look good enough to eat this afternoon, Sir Constantine.”
His lips tilted into a mischievous grin, out of character with the badass image he cultivated in public. “You think so?” He bent over her, his arms braced on either side of her desk chair. She licked her lips when his intense gaze settled on her mouth. “Then let me take care of you.” He nuzzled his nose along her neck. His breath teased the unmarred skin. “No need to run to the arms of a stranger when we could make magic of our own, beautiful.”
For a moment, she almost allowed herself to believe in the impossible—almost. Ghost pain ripped across her skin like finely-honed blades. The sensation tore a gasp from her, and she shoved her chair back to escape his seductive persuasion. Her laugh sounded forced and bitter. “You suggested this, remember?”
“Yeah, but I changed my mind.” He dropped to his knees, eyes as vivid blue as the sea surrounding his homeland. His long fingers curled over her bare thighs. “Don’t go, Brenna. I could help you through this if you’d let me.”
God, she wanted to believe, to lean into him and soak up his sexy strength, but how long before he drifted on to someone who could grace his arm as a worthy mate? How many weeks before questions about her scars and pity over her shattered dreams became more than he could handle? She forced a smile and cupped his face in her hands, relishing the scratch of his whiskers against her palms. “I need to get laid, you said so yourself, but I need my friend more. Why would I mess with perfection, hot stuff?”