It was, I thought, maybe thirty seconds of heaven. Maybe a bit longer, but impossible to tell, because good things never last.

I could feel the fragile, frantic beat of her pulse against my lips, and was about to catch the skin there and suck it in between my teeth when the hands she had on my shoulders stiffened.

A moment later, she shoved me away.

Her eyes snapped at me, and her mouth puckered into a frown. I wanted to kiss it away, but judging by the look on her face, Maya wasn’t going to give me a chance.

“I don’t think of you that way.”

I wanted to call her on the lie.

Her cheeks were flushed, and I could still recall the stiff points of her nipples against my chest, the racing of her heart.

But I wasn’t going to do that. I was an asshole. But not that much of an asshole.

She’d said no.

“Why don’t you go kiss Florence? I know you’ve done it before. Shouldn’t be any trouble to do it again.” Her eyes slid away for a brief moment, and I knew she was avoiding something.

But I didn’t call her on that, either. I might have, but something else was at the forefront of my mind. I all but sputtered the words out, miserably uncomfortable as I demanded, “Have you two been talking about me?”

Maybe that was why she didn’t want to spend any time with me. It wasn’t like I had some crystal clean past, but most women didn’t really care about that. The ones who didn’t find it exciting thought they could ‘change me.’

“Of course,” Maya said, and she had the nerve to give me a disdainful sniff, one that clearly said, oh, you’re so naive. “That’s what girls do.”

Yet despite the female amusement I could see in her eyes, I again had the weirdest feeling she was hiding something. I wanted to know what it was.

I took a step toward her, but she lifted her hands in a staying gesture. “Don’t.” There was a sadness in her voice, but steel too. She shook her head. “I’m not kidding. I don’t want…this.” She waved a hand back and forth between us, and again, I had to fight not to call her on the lie.

But her next words just about knocked the wind out of me.

She pulled her shoulders back, taking a deep breath before she met my eyes dead on.

“I’m not anybody’s plaything. I won’t be anybody’s plaything. And you shouldn’t treat Florence like one, either.” She clenched her jaw, looking frustrated and miserable and out of sorts.

I could empathize with that, at least.

I wanted to tell her she was seeing things wrong, but it wasn’t like I could really argue. How many women had I been with in the past few months? There were five or six that I could recall off the top of my head—and those were the women I’d been with while I was sober. There could have been more that I didn’t remember. If I had a drink or two too many, things tended to blur.

Still, I’d told Florence from the start I wasn’t interested in anything serious. She’d told me she understood, said she still wanted to continue seeing me.

That was her choice.

I was just about to explain all of that to Maya when she spoke again. “You have something with Florence if you’re feeling…amorous. Go see her. You need to be with her anyway.”

“Hold up,” I said, cutting her off. “I’m not required to be with anybody. I didn’t sign my life away to anyone, and I’ve told her, more than once, that I’m not interested in marriage. You don’t believe me, go ask her.” I was getting pissed off—and it didn’t help that I was more turned-on than I’d ever been and less likely than ever to get laid. At least by the woman responsible for my current state.

That really sucked.

“So you don’t care what happens to her?” Maya planted her hands on her hips, giving me an indignant look.

“I never said that!” Why in the hell was I being made to feel like I’d done something wrong? “She’s a friend. I care about her plenty. I just don’t want to marry her or settle down and have 3.2 kids with her!”

But Maya didn’t seem to hear the last part. She only heard I care about her…

Pointing a finger in my direction, she said, “Then you better show that you care. I’m not kidding when I say she’s fragile. She’s got some serious issues going on, and I don’t like to think about what she might do if she thought you were spending time with anybody, least of all me. I’m supposed to be her assistant, her friend, making things easier for her, not harder.”

“I’ve already told you. I’m not interested in Florence.”

“You sure as hell haven’t given her that impression. She’s in love with you!” Maya said.

I wanted to argue with her and tell her how wrong she was. Florence was so lost about who she was, she couldn’t possibly know who I was, or how she felt about me. Sometimes, I didn’t even know if she knew how she felt about herself. It was one of the few things that we had in common.

But before I could try, again, to explain any of that to Maya, she turned on her heel and stormed away.

“Wait a minute,” I shouted to her back.

To my surprise, she turned and flipped me off. She actually shot me the bird. In all my life, no woman had ever done that to me.

Plenty of men had.

I’d had women tell me—in not so polite ways—to leave them alone. But I never had a woman give me the silent gesture for fuck you.

It stunned me enough that I was left gaping at her as she stomped back into the studio.

For a moment I thought that I should have responded with, Is that an offer?

But she was already gone. So I stood there, brooding and fuming—and hard as iron. And it wasn’t just because I’d been kissing Maya or stroking that soft skin. It wasn’t just because I’d felt the soft plane of her belly against my cock, or her breasts pressed flat against my chest.

It had everything to do it had to do with…everything. From kissing her, to touching her, to arguing with her.

Women didn’t argue with me. They might yell at me, or cry when I refused to get serious with them, but they didn’t argue.

Yet another thing about her that made her different.

Narrowing my eyes, I studied the door, almost able to see her, straight through that barrier.

Her skin was most certainly flushed, and I’d bet money that her eyes were still flashing with irritation…and desire.

She did want me. She didn’t like it, but she wanted me. I could sympathize.

I didn’t want to want her, either.

Life would be so much easier for me if I could want Florence the way I wanted Maya. My career would skyrocket. I’d probably feel better about life in general. Things would settle down.

Instead, I was left wanting a woman who was making it clear she didn’t want anything to do with me, save for…well, lusting for me.

As I stood there, my thoughts pensive, something slowly started to occur to me.

All of her arguments seemed dependent on Florence being convinced she was in love with me. Typically, I tried to behave around Florence. She didn’t handle confrontations or my rougher behavior. That fight I’d just had with Maya would have sent her away in tears.

Even seeing other people argue upset her.

Maybe what I needed to do was show both of them how wrong they were…about me. About me and Florence together.

An inner voice whispered to me, That’s not very nice. Florence doesn’t need that.

But the rest of me wondered if maybe that wasn’t exactly what I needed to do: show Florence just what she would get into if she were in a relationship with me.

She needed a nicer man—a better man. She didn’t need a bastard like me, who would run roughshod over her. She shouldn’t be with a guy who had to walk on eggshells whenever they were together, worried he’d make her cry at the drop of a hat. One who spent more time during sex focusing on being gentle with her than letting go.

She needed to figure that out, and maybe this was the best way to show her.

And at the same time, I could show Maya just what would happen if I did turn my attentions toward Florence.

I had a feeling it would eat her alive.

* * *

I spent that afternoon doing what Maya had insisted I do; I paid more attention to Florence.

Florence didn’t seem to know what to think, and neither did half the people in the studio.

While I was taking a break, I asked her to go get me some coffee. After a moment’s hesitation, she went and did just that. I could tell she wasn’t happy about it—nor did she want to do it, either.

She was used to having people bring her things. She’d worked her way up the rungs of the Hollywood ladder. Back then, she’d ran and fetched coffee, missing things from wardrobe, the works. Now it was her turn to be catered to.

Except us guys could be assholes. Typically, this was one area where I actually tried not to be—show business could be brutal to the women in the industry, something I’d learned from an early age, thanks to having both parents connected, in one way or the other, to film. Eventually, it had destroyed my mother.

I was an asshole outside the studio though. I was grouchy and surly and self-centered. I rarely thought about what others wanted, and was more concerned about what I wanted.

So I was going to make Florence see that.

Thus, I’d ask her to bring me coffee every damn break if that was what it would take. I’d kick the ass of anybody else who tried it, though. I, at least, had reasons.

I could imagine what Maya would have said if I’d asked her, though: Go get it yourself.

As a matter of fact, she had said that very thing to more than a few men during the time she had been here.

They didn’t like it, either. When they responded with irritation—and most of them did—she would point out that she was Florence’s assistant, and if Florence suggested she go get everybody on the set coffee, then she would happily do so. But none of the studio employees were going to approach the star of the show and ask her to tell her assistant to go fetch coffee.

I was a different beast altogether, though. I was Florence’s costar, and I was also much more established in Hollywood.

Part of me was tempted to ask Maya to get me some coffee.

I thought about doing it, just to see the fire in her eyes.

I didn’t though.

I kept my attention on Florence, and when she brought me the coffee, I tugged her down onto my lap.

She was stiff, clearly annoyed and probably a bit hurt, and it bothered me more than I’d thought it would. Her cheeks were flushed and after a stroke of my hand down her back, I nudged her back to her feet.

“Thanks for the coffee, sweetheart,” I said, offering what I hoped was an apologetic smile.

I wouldn’t do that again.

Still, I could tell it had the desired effect. She was both aggravated and confused.

And Maya was pissed off.

Tomorrow, I was going to start on the next part of the plan. I just had to figure out exactly what that was.

* * *

I was up an hour earlier than normal.

I was clear-headed and sober, and still crankier than a son of a bitch.

Or maybe the fact that I was clear-headed and sober was why I was crankier than a son of a bitch. Also, being awake earlier than normal wasn’t helping with my mood.

But I didn’t roll over and go back to bed, and when Mrs. Blanchard knocked on my door to let me know I had breakfast waiting downstairs, I didn’t bite her head off.

“Thanks. I’ll be down in a minute,” I shouted through the door.

I heard a distinct—and disbelieving—muttered, “I just bet you will,” through the door and it was enough to make me grin.

I’d show her.

I had things to accomplish today.

Peter had put things in motion last night, which meant I had to get my ass in gear.

That wasn’t going to happen without massive amounts of coffee and food. Hot food. Preferably the bacon and eggs and pancakes kind.

Apparently, Mrs. Blanchard had known exactly what I’d need to get my motor going this morning. The air was redolent with the scents of bacon and coffee, and when I walked into the kitchen, I saw the pristine white table was already set.

There were two places.

Mrs. Blanchard had long since figured out I didn’t like to eat alone. Neither did she.

Her husband had died four years earlier and since then, she’d moved from the gatehouse into one of the guest suites in the lower level of my home. I had more than enough room, and sometimes, I slept better just knowing I wasn’t the only one in the big, old place.

She sniffed as she caught sight of my bare chest. “What would you parents think of you walking around half-naked?”

“Probably not much.” I sat down and picked up my coffee. The first sip sent caffeine jolting through me, and I sighed in satisfaction. More. Much, much more. “Seeing as how they saw me bare-ass naked when I was a baby. And so did you.”

She sniffed in response, but I saw a hint of a smile on her lips. She’d been taking care of me in one way or another since I was born.

“Eat, you troublemaker. Whatever you’re up to, eat and get on with it. I’m cleaning house today, and I don’t need you in my way.” She pointed a fork at me and with that, dug into a fluffy set of pancakes.

I followed suit.

I loved arguing with her, but she was also one of the very few people who I’d listen to with hardly any hesitation.

* * *

I pulled up in front of Florence’s house at roughly the same time I was normally pulling my miserable ass out of bed. I had a thermos of coffee and I took it with me, cradling it the same way a drunkard might clutch his last bottle of rotgut. As I started up the steps, I took a tentative swig—it had been too hot on the way out of my place, but the twenty-minute drive had allowed it to cool down a bit.

I knocked, waiting for the caffeine to hit my system.

To my surprise, it was Maya who answered the door.

“What, she has you answering her doors now?” I asked without thinking.

“Harrison is taking his vacation.”

Blankly, I stared at her. “Who’s Harrison?”

“The butler,” she offered in a cool voice. “Or did you think he didn’t have a name?”

“Why would I think that?” Dammit, she pissed me off, even as I wanted to kiss the hell out of her.

Her lips pursed as she studied me and after a moment, she shrugged and turned, leaving me to come inside and shut the door. “Come on in. Florence is finishing her breakfast.”

I almost asked her if she had to make breakfast since Harrison wasn’t there, but decided it wasn’t worth the sharp edge of her tongue. “Have you eaten? I don’t want us to be late.”

“Oh, I won’t be riding along.” She glanced past me out the window, then gave me a sweet smile. “When Florence said you were picking her up, I told her I’d use the studio’s car service. And the car has just arrived.”

Testily, I said, “I was going to drive you both.”

“But the offer was for Florence.” Maya smiled, but it was more like a little tigress baring her teeth. “And she was so excited. I didn’t want to intrude.” Then she took a step forward, her voice low. “Don’t hurt her. I’m not kidding.”

Bewildered, I stared at her and she strode past me. She opened the door and before I could get my brain working and string a few words together, she was already heading down the pathway.

I went after her, but the driver was out of the car and coming around to open the door.

This wasn’t a conversation I could have around others.

And as I debated on telling the driver to come back in five minutes, I heard a voice calling my name.

“Good morning, Glenn.”

Turning, I looked up the walkway and smiled at Florence. “Good morning.”

* * *

Don’t hurt her.

The drive to the studio passed in a blur of Florence’s chatter, and my puzzlement over Maya’s words. Had somebody gone and told her that I hurt women? I’d never laid a hand on a woman in my life—not violently. Granted, I’d sure as hell screwed my way through a number of beds, but that wasn’t the same as physically harming somebody.

She’s fragile…

“I was so glad when Maya asked if she could use the studio’s car service.” Florence reached over to touch my arm as I pulled into my parking spot at the studio. They’d offered the service to me as well and sometimes I’d used it, but I liked driving.

Turning off the engine, I looked over at Florence but she was already climbing out of the car. Sighing, I got out and joined her at the trunk. She had her hands clasped in front of her.

“Maybe we can try dinner again, Glenn?”

Her eyes looked hesitant. She licked her lips and her shoulders were tight, like she was already expecting a rejection. Don’t hurt her.

How was I supposed to handle this? I didn’t want the same things from Florence that she wanted from me—the things she thought she wanted, at least.

Maybe what I needed to do was explain that to her. Just explain that and fuck this stupid game I was playing with Maya.

Once Florence understood that I liked her, cared for her—but that I didn’t love her—she could move on and find somebody who did. She’d be happier for it.

“Yeah.” I offered her a smile. “Maybe we should. There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about anyway.”

“Oh!” Her eyes brightened and before I could figure out what to think about that, Florence flung her arms around me and kissed me. Instinctively, my hands went to her hips and I kissed her back.

She tasted like coffee and toothpaste…and whiskey.

She’s fragile…

Realizing my mistake, I eased back, just in time to catch a glimpse of a woman’s pale face as she stepped out a car.

It was Maya.

Even though she’d left before we had, she was only just now getting to the studio. I could tell from the look on her face, she’d seen Florence kiss me.

I wanted to go after her. I wanted to tell her this wasn’t what it looked like.

But she turned on her heel and started for the studio, carrying a white bakery bag with her.

Donuts. She’d gone and gotten fucking donuts and showed up at the worst possible time.

Fuck. Way to go, genius.