The Wild Side

Melissa took a deep breath. “I…I want to try new things. I want an adventure. Something I can remember when I’m fifty and I’ve been with the same guy for twenty years. I want anything and everything but the same old missionary grind.”

Riley slid his hands up her thighs to her waist. “I understand,” he murmured, tightening his hold into a strong, reassuring grip.

She pressed herself against him, shocked to feel him hard between them. Oh, man. He wants me. A guy like this…

He led her over to the couch and pulled her down across his lap, kissing her all the while. She sank against him, totally carried away by the man and his mouth. Then his hands came up under her skirt, skimmed her thighs and settled on the mound of her sex through her panties.

Arousal seared through her; she gasped and arched up instinctively for more pressure, shocked by his boldness, shocked by her own. She’d never been this hot, this ready….

If he touched her, she’d die. If he didn’t, she’d die faster.

Dear Reader,

Harlequin Blaze is a supersexy new series. If you like love stories with a strong sexual edge then this is the line for you! The books are fun and flirtatious, the heroes are hot and outrageous. Blaze is a series for the woman who wants more in her reading pleasure….

This month bestselling Harlequin Presents author Miranda Lee delivers #9 Just a Little Sex…about one night of passion that turns into much more! Rising star Jamie Denton says you need to break the rules in #10 Sleeping With the Enemy, a story with sizzling sexual tension and erotic love scenes. Talented Isabel Sharpe takes us to #11 The Wild Side, a fun, lusty tale about a good girl who decides bad might be better. Popular Janelle Denison rounds out the month with #12 Heat Waves, another SEXY CITY NIGHTS story set in fiery Chicago—where the heat definitely escalates after dark….

Look for four Blaze books every month at your favorite bookstore. And check us out online at eHarlequin.com and tryblaze.com.

Enjoy!

Birgit Davis-Todd

Senior Editor & Editorial Coordinator

Harlequin Blaze

The Wild Side

Isabel Sharpe

MILLS & BOON

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To Barbara, Elizabeth, Heather, Karen and Susie,

who deserve public recognition for twenty-plus years

listening to my sorrows, laughing at my jokes

and tolerating my neuroses as only the best friends do.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR…

I’ve always preferred Mr. Personality to dark brooding hunks. Guys with whom I could imagine enjoying morning-after conversation almost as much as how we spent the previous evening. This is one of the reasons I love writing for Harlequin Duets, which is where you may have met me before.

But…to my surprise, I absolutely loved writing Riley, the darkest, broodingest, hunkiest hero I’ve ever created. I had a blast messing up his precise, controlled life by assigning him Melissa, whose natural humor, quirky cynicism and frank desire for sexual experimentation rattle him in a way he’s not at all prepared for.

Throw in stolen jewelled art, a little suspense and a secondary couple who have an equally rocky journey to love, and you’ve taken a walk with me on The Wild Side.

Enjoy!

P.S. I love hearing from readers. Write to me at IsaSharpe@aol.com.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Prologue

ROSE BLEW HER NOSE, then added the tissue to the pile on her pink-and-white rose-print bedspread. She glanced at the clock and collapsed into another spasm of sobbing. It was 9:00 a.m. Half an hour since the tears had started. This bout should be wrapping up pretty soon.

She’d finally gotten to where she could view her crying fits philosophically. Months could go by without them, but sooner or later, one would catch up with her. Put them down to exhaustion, maybe mild depression, hormones…whatever.

At first she’d thought she was going crazy. Now she considered the tears a harmless and probably healthy form of stress relief. Since her apartment had been broken into, the crying jags had been coming more frequently. Little wonder. That sense of unease, of her privacy being violated, had lingered, as if the intruder were still hiding in her home.

Ten minutes later, the sobs subsided into shuddering sighs, then hiccups. Rose blew her nose again and gathered up the tissues to take to the trash, giving one last sigh—of relief this time. She crossed to the window, over the colorful rugs strewn on her hardwood floor, wincing when she put weight on the foot His Royal Majesty, Prince Rajid of Saudi Arabia, had stepped on last night. Sweet guy. Rotten dancer.

But then they all had some flaw, fatal or otherwise—not that she had perfection sewn up by any means. Deep down she suspected the man didn’t exist who could make her fall so far in love she’d forsake all others. Though on some level, however shallow, she did love all the men she dated, from the bottoms of their feet to the tops of their enormous, fragile egos. She loved how they looked at her, how they made her feel. Loved the power she had to entice or amuse or excite them. The only thing she’d ever really been good at. Like an alcoholic or a smoker, she was addicted. To men.

But real take-over-your-soul love? She doubted she was capable of it. Her personal fatal flaw, perhaps.

Rose wiped away the last tear from her cheek and drew aside the white lace curtain to see if the van across the street was still parked there. Before the break-in and before that horrible threatening letter, her addiction had seemed harmless. She got everything she wanted. The men got most of what they wanted. Now someone wanted more from her than a good time. And she hadn’t a clue who it was or what it was all about. Someone stalking her? An angry ex-beau? A few men had protested when she’d ended their relationship, but most had parted on friendly terms and gone off on their next hunt.

Maybe it was something in the apartment. She’d gotten plenty of gifts over the years. Maybe some guy had given her heirloom jewelry by mistake and Mama wanted it back.

She could only hope it was that easy.

The van sat across Garden Street, as usual. Ted’s TV Repair. She shivered and swallowed more threatening tears. Call her paranoid, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her from that van. She ought to call the police and ask them to check it out. Of course, it could be the police, keeping close tabs since the break-in. Either way, police or criminal, Rose felt threatened, claustrophobic.

So much for her Total Relaxation Saturdays.

Her phone rang; she jumped and pulled her bathrobe more tightly around her. People she loved knew Saturday was her no-phone, vegging day. The day she always refused invitations, in some perverse homage to the dateless Saturdays she’d suffered in high school. It was her day to sit home in her pajamas with the frogs on them, watch bad TV, eat chocolate, write letters the nurses could read to her mom…. Her day of regression. No social responsibilities. No cleaning. No makeup. No men.

The machine picked up the call. Clicked. Clicked again. Senator Alvin Mason’s patrician voice played on the tape. “Come on, Rose. I know you’re there. Pick up. It’s important.”

Rose’s brows drew down. He sounded strange…strained. Unusual for Mr. Hearty-Sound-Bite. They’d dated for a few months, a year or so ago, before he decided he’d have more political success as a married man, and had gone hunting for a suitable wife.

She picked up. “I’m here.”

“How are you, Rose?”

Rose frowned. He didn’t sound like he gave a rat’s ass how she felt. And she could have sworn she heard a truck go by in the background. Was one of Massachusetts’s most illustrious politicians calling from a pay phone? “I’m okay. You sound horrible. Where are you calling fr—”

“I heard about the break-in.” He nearly shouted to be heard over another engine. “They didn’t take anything.”

“No.” She wrapped the phone cord around a tight fist. How did he know that? “I got a letter, too, two days ago. Telling me to watch out.” Massachusetts’s Senator-for-the-Wholesome-Family swore obscenely. For one sweet moment, Rose allowed herself to feel pleasure at his protectiveness. Then scoffed at her own Cinderella-bullcrap mentality.

“This wasn’t supposed to—” He swore again.

Rose held absolutely still. The phone cord swayed gently against the wooden end table her great-great-grandmother had brought over from England. Oh, God. He was part of it. “You know something about this?”

She barely recognized her own voice. Not the sweet, sexy girl everyone thought she was, but harsh, hard-edged. A grown woman afraid for her life.

The senator took a deep breath, audible even over the traffic noise. “Rose…”

She closed her eyes; her body began to shake.

“Rose…” His voice was quiet, calm, deadly serious. “I think you should go away for a while.”

1

RILEY ANDERSON LOWERED himself into the grimy booth opposite Charlie Watson, captain in the Boston Police Force and primary supporter of the city’s greasy spoon establishments. Hands folded on the table, Riley greeted him and sat straight, regarding Watson evenly so as not to betray either interest or suspicion. Cops didn’t summon private investigators to out-of-the-way burger joints unless they were in deep.

“Thing is…” Watson tossed back the last French fry and looked wistfully at his empty plate. “Thing is, I wouldn’t come to you unless it was an absolute last resort. We’ve got plenty of people on the force who could handle this.”

Riley nodded, not rising to the bait, not moving, though the booth hit his back in uncomfortable places. Holding still and watching went a long way toward making people reveal things they weren’t planning to—if they were hiding anything in the first place. The jury was still out on the captain.

Watson took a gulp of soda from a gargantuan cup and plopped it down in what he probably thought was a powerful gesture. He narrowed his eyes, which were an incongruous shade of ice-blue against his pale, flabby face. “Truth is, we have a situation. Involving important people. Very important. Another situation at the station. Very bad. I can’t risk—”

“Captain.” Riley lifted one eyebrow a fraction, all he’d allow to show of his impatience. “The point. Get to it.”

Watson crushed a burger wrapper and tossed it onto his tray, pale eyes never leaving Riley’s face. “Okay, you want it straight? I’ll give it to you straight. I don’t like having to come to you—don’t like it at all. But we got a leak at the station. Someone has developed a big mouth, and his big mouth is jeopardizing the investigation. I can’t trust anyone. You, I trust. I don’t like you, but I trust you.”

Riley nodded. He didn’t like or trust Charlie Watson, but now was probably not the best time to say so. “What’s the job?”

“It involves the apartment of a certain woman named Rose. Just Rose. Like Cher is just Cher.” He pushed back a few combed-over strands of hair that had broken free of whatever glue he used to hold them in place. “We think she might have received stolen property, possibly unwittingly. Property we are anxious to return to…the previous owners. She reported a break-in recently, nothing taken. Someone knows or suspects she’s got the goods. We’re watching the place in case someone makes another move, but I don’t want my detectives poking around until I know who I can trust.”

Riley clenched his teeth. Getting information out of the captain was like playing twenty questions. He leaned forward and fixed Watson with an even stare. “What would I be looking for?”

“Art.” The captain groped in his pocket and came up with a roll of antacids, avoiding Riley’s eyes. “An antique miniature portrait. Jeweled frame. Supposed to be worth a ton, what the hell do I know about it? But it’s more than that. We want you to be Rose’s special new friend, and figure out what the hell she knows.”

Riley relaxed his jaw, willing himself to be patient. “Who is Rose and where does she fit?”

Watson looked around, as if the elderly couple on one side and the frazzled mom with four kids on the other could be undercover agents. He propped his elbows on the table, hefted his bulk forward and beckoned Riley closer. “Here’s the thing. She’s supposed to be a total babe. Different guy every night. You know the type. We talked to some of the guys she used to date. Get this. They all had a completely different description of her: clothes, hair, eye color, even personality. But definitely the same Rose. This chick completely reinvents herself for whatever man she’s with. Can you beat that? Dates ‘em for a while, they go nuts over her, shower her with gifts, then she’s on to the next one. When she reported the break-in, she had my toughest detective whipped in about ten minutes. Some operator.”

Watson blew out an admiring whistle that grated on Riley’s nerves. What the hell was there to admire in a woman like that? “So some smitten sop gave her the portrait for her personal enrichment.”

“Ha! Not likely.” Watson slapped his fist on his thigh, obviously missing Riley’s sarcasm. “His physical enrichment, more like it.”

Riley compressed his lips, which wanted to curl in disgust. Just the type of woman you’d like to bring home to Mom for Sunday dinner. But the case intrigued him for some reason he couldn’t quite pin down. Watson knew a hell of a lot more than he was telling. “Who were the previous owners of the portrait?”

“That’s where I cut you off, Anderson.” Watson’s eyes narrowed into puffy slits. “This is police business. You get into her place and find the portrait. Report back to me on your progress. Don’t call the station, don’t talk to anyone else about this. If word got out among my men that you’re involved I’d have a mutiny.”

Riley nodded, blood pumping. This case had to be about more than wealthy art lovers wanting their precious portrait back. He wanted in.

He moved his jaw to fight back a grin. Slate would love it. Riley’s comrade-in-arms, partner and best friend was currently at the family cottage on the coast of Maine, mourning his mother’s death from cancer.

Riley and Slate had been a successful, and eventually highly decorated, Marine Recon fighting unit that had earned the respect of their peers and commanders alike. Gemini. The twins. In the field they’d developed such a bond that they barely needed to speak when they went on missions. If Riley’s instincts proved correct, and he’d need to do some digging to see, this case might induce Slate to return to civilization after the long year spent nursing his mom. It had been too long since they’d worked together.

Riley nodded again at Watson. “I’ll do it.”

“Not a tough assignment. I’m guessing the way you look, you won’t have any trouble getting friendly with this Rose character.” Watson sniggered and tipped back his soda cup, then cursed as an avalanche of crushed ice spilled onto his face and shirt.

Riley allowed himself a faint smile. If only justice got meted out so quickly all the time.

He stayed at the restaurant just long enough to agree on terms, preferring fresh air to deep-fat-fryer fumes, and preferring nearly anyone to Charlie Watson for company. Then he pushed open the bell-jangling door and headed for Cambridge street, inhaling the warm late-June air. Tourists flocked among the pigeons on City Hall Plaza; the breeze in his face brought the faint tang of the sea from nearby Boston Harbor. Riley headed for the Government Center T stop. Might as well take a look at this Rose woman’s apartment building this afternoon. Check out the scene, formulate a plan, then do some digging. Send Slate a telegram if he uncovered anything worthwhile.

The unmistakable nerve-burning sensation of being watched made him hesitate in his stride for a fraction of a second. He waited until he came opposite the low brick wall surrounding the entrance to the T, then turned, keeping the wall at his back.

A man. Clean-cut. Nice suit. Bulge for the gun. Government agent.

Riley set his feet slightly apart, hands at his waist and expression neutral as the man approached. His instincts had proved correct earlier than he’d anticipated. Coming so soon on the heels of the bizarre summons from Watson, this could mean only one thing. Whatever this guy wanted had something to do with Rose the Maneater and her art collector boyfriend.

“Ted Barker, FBI.” The man flashed a government credential from his wallet. “And you are Riley Anderson, private investigator, ex-Marine Force Recon, half of Gemini.”

“Yes.” Riley met the man’s eyes impassively, surprised to see what looked like a trace of admiration and respect in the FBI regulation sneer. “What can I do for you?”

“We’d like to talk to you.” Ted Barker, FBI, put away his ID and gestured to the black Lincoln Towne Car across the street. “We think you can help us.”

“WOW.” MELISSA ROGERS widened her eyes and leaned forward on the living room sofa in her Cambridge apartment, over the bowl of popcorn clutched in her lap. “Oh, wow.”

On her television screen, halfway through the movie 9 1/2 Weeks, a blindfolded Kim Basinger lay on her back in an open white shirt and white bikini panties, cigarette smoke swirling behind her in the blue-white light of a desk lamp. Mickey Rourke, smirking in devilish black, fished an ice cube out of his drink and held it for a camera close-up. Cold wet drips fell into Kim’s mouth, trickled between her lips, down her breasts, hardened her nipples, rolled into her navel.

“Oh, oh, wow. Look at how he…oh, wow.”

Her friend Penny grabbed a handful of popcorn from her own bowl and turned to Melissa in irritation. “Will you stop with the ‘Oh wow’ and let me watch the movie? You’re ruining it.”

Melissa forced her mouth shut, except when it needed to admit another influx of popcorn. And except when Kim was sitting on the floor in Mickey’s kitchen, eyes closed while he fed her—strawberries, cherries, olives, champagne—then squirted honey on her outstretched tongue, and onto her chin, and knees, and legs; used his hands to spread the sticky golden fluid around her thighs, around and in, and up, and higher….

Melissa opened her mouth and formed the words silently. Oh, wow.

The movie spun on, ended; credits rolled up the screen. A strange, almost angry longing charged through Melissa’s body. She smacked her fist on her sensible dark beige, Scotchgarded couch. “Why can’t something like that happen to me?”

“What.” Penny screwed up her face incredulously. “You want to meet a controlling, sadistic psycho who almost ruins your life?”

“No, no, no.” Melissa pushed the popcorn off her lap and stretched her bare feet rigidly out in front of her, trying to calm the emotional need for physical action. “I mean I want that kind of excitement, that danger. I want to be swept away by passion, even if it’s not sensible. Maybe especially because it isn’t sensible.”

“You and the entire population since man walked upright. Get real, Melissa. It don’t happen. By the time you get to sex, you and Mr. Whoever know too much about each other. There’s always baggage, always a power play, or at the very least you start worrying that your thighs feel too squishy, your arm is in the way or you’re taking too long to come and he’ll get impatient.” She pushed her oblong wire rims higher up on her nose. “Swept away by passion is for the movies. Trust me.”

“What about sex with a guy you don’t know? Someone you don’t have baggage with yet?” Melissa blurted the words out, shocked she’d admit considering such a thing, even to her best friend. Some hungry demon had recently invaded her personality and begun gobbling up her common sense.

“Huh? You want to risk messing sheets with a guy who turns out to be Mr. Diseased Serial-Killer?”

“Okay, look. I want a deep, meaningful relationship as much as anyone else. I want to get married someday, and I know the kind of guy that can make me happy. But marriage is like life was for the five years I dated Bill. Comfortable intimacy, predictable dates, same old fights about the same old issues.” Melissa gestured in the air and let her hand flop disgustedly into her lap. “I understand that. I don’t expect it to be a rest-of-my-life thrill. But I’m not married now. I want something different, a totally shallow and exciting and fabulous adventure with someone I know is completely wrong for me.”

Penny snapped her wide-open mouth shut. “Since when have you been Ms. Hot-to-Trot?”

Melissa sat up and curled her legs under her. “I don’t know. I’m tired of being sensible and dependable and predictable. I want to try being someone else for a change.”

Penny rolled her eyes. “Who, Mata Hari?”

“Why not?” Melissa stretched her arms over her head and grinned. “After all those years with Bill, and then the months of misery after he dumped me, I feel alive. Like I’ve been asleep all my life and I’m just waking up.”

Penny peered over the tops of her glasses, brows raised. “Today is the first day of the rest of your life?”

Melissa grabbed a handful of popcorn and lobbed it at her friend. “Many thanks for taking my late-twenties crisis so seriously.”

“Aw, hon, you know I care. I just think sex is not any kind of a cure for what ails you.”

“Then what is?”

“Love.” Penny nodded emphatically. “You need to fall in love.”

“Oh, please. I was in love with Bill. Look where that got me.”

“Ha! Bill was a habit, not love. Give yourself some time. Look around. Ask your friends. Not me, though. If I knew an adorable, single, straight guy I wouldn’t let you near him.” Penny heaved her well-padded self up to her full five-foot-two-inch height, shook off the popcorn in a gentle rain onto Melissa’s hardwood floor and scooped it back into her empty bowl. “Me, I must go. I have to be at the museum shop early tomorrow. We’re expecting a huge shipment of mini Thinker statues for the Rodin exhibit.”

Melissa saw her friend to the door and waved goodbye, then lingered in the hallway, listening to the giggles and booming laughter coming from the apartment across the hall. Rose must have brought her date home tonight. The woman never stopped.

Again that strange, wild yearning slammed into Melissa. Sort of a combination of lust, fury and panic. Like she’d been trapped in a tiny elevator with John Cusack and didn’t know whether to jump him, force back the doors with Superwoman strength or freak from claustrophobia.

The door to Rose’s apartment opened. Melissa stepped back and guiltily gave in to her voyeuristic mood by closing her door most of the way and gluing her eye to the crack.