One calendar.

Twelve months of outrageously hot construction workers.

And a few fortunate women who get to sample their delights.

The stories behind the camera are hotter than the pictures – and the photos alone can send women into paroxysms of bliss…

These hard-working and hard-playing men don’t come with an instruction booklet. They’re locked, loaded and ready to perform. Meet the subjects of the naughtiest charity calendar around.

Ben Delgado: This Peruvian man has smouldering dark eyes and supremely talented hands that promise a lifetime of pleasure to his wife-to-be!

Josh Kittredge: A charmer who restores old houses and worked his way through college as a male dancer, Josh also has a sweet teddy-bear side that can turn on any woman – especially the calendar photographer!

Hawk Shadow Bonaparte: A native American ironworker, this man is tall, dark and oh-so-handsome. And when he takes a certain female private investigator to his job site at the top of a high-rise, she learns what it is to really soar.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Karen Kendall is the author of many disasters and fifteen published romantic comedies. While she’s fascinated by cosmetic procedures that erase wrinkles, plump lips, remove moles and augment breasts, she is too chicken to undergo them herself. Karen is becoming ever more resigned to a lifetime of pudgy thighs.

Cindi Myers believes there’s nothing like a man who’s good with his hands. She didn’t marry her husband solely because he owned a tool belt and looked good wearing it, but it certainly didn’t hurt. She lives and writes in the mountains of Colorado with her handy husband and two spoiled dogs.

In “Watching It Go Up,” Colleen Collins pulled from her experience as a private investigator to characterise the heroine, PI Gina Keys. Like many women in this profession, Gina is tough-minded, independent, creative and fearless – a perfect heroine for the story’s hero, a full-blooded Native American ironworker (called “Skywalkers” for their fearlessness and agility while working on skyscrapers). To read more about Colleen’s upcoming books, go to www.colleencollins.net.

MEN AT WORK

BY

KAREN KENDALL

CINDI MYERS

COLLEEN COLLINS

www.millsandboon.co.uk

THROUGH THE ROOF

by

KAREN KENdALL

For Julita, who always makes me laugh,

and who needs no cosmetic procedures

to make her a great friend!

1

GO FIGURE—Marina Reston found it impossible to drive with cold cucumber slices over her eyes.

Even though she’d carefully cut out iris-sized holes in the centers of them with a sterling-silver grapefruit knife and had removed all those icky little seeds.

Even though she’d pulled a Saks Fifth Avenue baseball cap down to her brow-line and tucked the slices under the rim to keep them in place.

And even though, when that had failed, she’d used a very large manuscript rubber band to hold them on. Driving under the influence of cucumbers just didn’t work.

The juice ran into her eyes even when they did stay on. And they created huge blind spots, playing havoc with her depth perception. She was simply going to have to meet private investigator Gina Keys with horrifically puffy eyes.

Thanks, Ben. This wouldn’t be a problem if I could stop crying over you.…

How could her fiancé have broken up with her in a letter? How could he have just disappeared? And how could he not answer his cell phone or respond to the increasingly desperate messages she’d left over the past four days? Not only was she devastated, she was worried sick.

And then there was the question of the charity calendar Ben had promised to pose for. The shoot was next week. She had to find him before then or Frameworks for the Future would be short a model—but he’d obviously forgotten. Just like he’d forgotten her.

Well, that’s just fine…because I hate him.

Marina’s hands tightened on the wheel as if it were Ben Delgado’s neck. As if she could drive him around a corner, floor his gas pedal and run him straight into the plate-glass storefront of that Taco Bell… But, oh, hey!

What was she thinking? Ben was so not worth a storm of shredded cheese stuck to her 911’s paint job. Not to mention all the irate people in paper hats and food-service gloves who would be sure to yell at her.

Marina went back to the problem of her gruesomely puffy eyes. She could always leave her sunglasses on inside the P.I.’ s office, but that seemed so aloof and pretentious.

With a sigh, she pressed the small silver button that unrolled her 911’s window and then tossed the cucumber slices out the window, so they took to the air like mini flying saucers.

She rolled up her window again and frowned at the electronic GPS map in the Porsche’s console. Since she was traveling south, or upside down according to the map, it always took her a moment to figure out if the GPS wanted her to go left or right next. Because left, upside down, was like right, right-side up, and Marina had no sense of direction whatsoever.

Her delayed deductive reasoning eventually kicked in, and Marina turned right on 17th, heading for Little Havana. Soon she was on Calle Ocho, passing tiny meat markets, fruterias, herbal shops and cigar stands.

She craved a cafecito, or Cuban coffee, but given her already frayed nerves and shaky emotional state, it was a bad idea. A woman who’d been crying for almost four straight days and living on a diet of wine and Advil should definitely avoid caffeine.

Two blocks, another left and one parking slot later, she found herself in a small cluttered strip mall that housed G K Investigations. She gathered her purse, Jumbo Jamba-Juice cup and little Ziploc bag of cucumber slices and then headed toward G K’s office door.

She remembered that Ms. Keys kept her door locked for security reasons and pressed the button next to it.

A buzz indicated that she could now open the door and she clicked inside in her new bargain sandals. She’d saved thirty percent off the $595 retail price by ordering them from Bluefly.com.

And Ben says I don’t know how to spell economize. Her lip trembled.

Ben. Where was he? She had to find him. He couldn’t do this! She needed him. Loved him. They had a life together—he couldn’t just disappear this way.

“I’ll be right with you,” a voice called from the back.

Marina’s eyes welled up again as she looked around Ms. Keys’s very plain, very small office and wobbled over to one of two green velour easy chairs that had seen better days.

Oh, God. The swelling around her eyes would never go down before the silent auction tonight if she didn’t stop this. And she had to emcee.

Marina set her purse in her lap and her Jumbo Jamba-Juice on an old trunk cluttered with magazines. The only other piece of furniture in the reception area of the office was a very large dog crate that served as a stand for a beat-up coffeemaker.

She wondered a little nervously where the dog was—she was petrified of big ones. Curiously, the air held not a whiff of eau de canine—just a faint mustiness that was all too common in south Florida.

With unsteady fingers she opened her Ziploc bag and removed two more cucumber slices from her reserve stash.

She was just leaning back and placing one on her right eyelid when an inside door opened and a striking girl with white-blond, short, spiky hair stuck her head out. “Mrs. Reston?”

The girl stared at the cucumber slices. Then she took in Marina’s five-inch silver sandals and her adorable, silver leather Ferragamo bondage bag with the scarlet silk lining and tasselties. Her pale blond eyebrows shot up.

Meanwhile, Marina stared in fascination at the tiny sapphire in the girl’s nose. It actually looked fabulous on her and deepened the gray-blue of her eyes.

Marina sniffed woefully. “It’s actually miss.”

She tottered to her feet and gathered her belongings in her left hand, pinching the cucumber slices between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. “It would have been Mrs. in just four months,” she blurted, “But then I found it.” She swallowed. “The letter.”

“I see,” said Gina Keys, not unsympathetically. It had to be Gina, since there was nobody else in the office. “Well, won’t you—”

“He broke up with me in a letter! Can you believe that?”

“Um—”

“A letter.” Marina brandished the Jumbo Jamba-Juice while Ms. Keys nodded calmly.

“Yes. That does seem a little—”

“Low-down? Cowardly? Generally crummy?” Marina’s voice rose and cracked.

“Passive aggressive.”

“I need you to find him for me. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Gray-blue eyes met hers. The tiny sapphire glowed. “Why don’t you come into my office and sit down? And though I think you’ve figured this out by now, I’m Gina Keys.” She smiled.

“Marina Reston. And I’m sorry but I’m a bit of a mess right now.”

“Your fiancé’s disappeared. It’s understandable.”

Marina sniffled again. “Yes. Well. Thanks for not offering me ranch dressing for these. That’s what the guy at my bank did.” She dropped the bag of cucumber slices into Gina’s trash can, followed her into the other room and sat down in another slightly battered chair opposite her desk, which was actually a door with screwed-on legs.

Gina’s lips twitched. “Do the cucumbers really work?”

Marina nodded vigorously, stared at the door-desk and wondered how long the P.I. had been in business. But she came highly recommended by a friend, so maybe she was just one of those no-frills types.

Gina handed her a box of tissues, pulled a legal pad and pen closer to her and leaned back in her chair. “Well, why don’t you tell me about, ah, Ben. Delgado is his last name?”

“Yes.” Marina fought to get her thoughts under control, to push back all the images crowding her mind: Ben’s slightly dazzled expression when they’d first met in her garden to draw up landscaping plans. His self-assurance when he’d asked her out. The feel of his hand gripping hers as he helped her onto his friend’s boat and served her champagne with cold, sliced nectarines.

Ben’s expert salsa, his feet never missing a step and his hips gyrating and making her blush. The way he’d made love to her the very first time, as if she were the eighth wonder of the world. And the night he’d proposed to her. I’m not a rich man, mi corazón, but I’ll take care of you…I will love you until the day I die…you will want for nothing that is in my power to give you.

The words and images moved through her head like a personal film trailer and she was helpless to stop them.

“Ms. Reston?” Gina brought Marina back to reality with a jolt. “Can you tell me a little bit about Mr. Delgado?”

Her chest ached from inside; it physically hurt. Her throat was raw and her sinuses felt stuffed with fiberglass. Her stomach churned. She wished her brain would dissolve and free her from the mental torture of her memories, but they remained all too sharp. Pull yourself together, Marina. Tell her about Ben.

“He’s half Peruvian, though he spent his teenage years in Venezuela after his mother remarried. He has a U.S. passport, since his father’s American—of Spanish descent.”

“Do you have a photo?”

Marina nodded and fished a 5 x 7 out of her bag. Ben stared coolly from the picture, his black hair lifting in a May breeze. His stubborn jaw showcased a sensual mouth and even, white teeth.

He had long lashes and dark eyes, faint lines of humor—and mulish male pride—etched at the corners. Above them stretched black eyebrows, which used to form playful, sexy squiggles.

But lately, since the horrific early storm, they’d been slashes of deep worry and anger. Hurricane Ernestine had destroyed everything Ben had worked so hard to achieve. Did it have to ruin their love, too?

Marina ran her finger over Ben’s image, trying to feel his familiar, warm olive skin, the rock-hard arms emerging from the sleeves of his T-shirt. Of course, it was useless, since he had vanished just like every greenhouse tree, shrub and flower of his formerly thriving landscaping business.

But, while they had blown or washed away, he, the hopelessly handsome bastard, had walked.

She knew it had devastated him. That he’d spent weeks in a hopeless rage against fate and the weather and the small print in his insurance contract.

She’d tried to be there for him, but he’d pushed her away. She’d offered help but he’d rebuffed it. She’d offered comfort but he’d behaved as if it were emotional charity. How did a woman reach a man like him? How could she channel his futile fury into something more constructive? The answer: She couldn’t. She had to let him rage until he’d gotten it out of his system. But why was he punishing her for something nature had done?

Gina inspected the photo and then put it down on her desk without comment. She made a couple of notes on her legal pad. “Do you have others?”

“Yes. I can get them to you tomorrow.”

“What are his clothes like?”

Marina bit the acrylic tip on her index finger. “The ones I buy for him or the ones he buys?”

“I’m asking about his general look.”

“Jeans, Levi’s—nothing fancy. T-shirts, usually black and snug. No belt. No socks. Nice leather sandals. Maybe work boots if he’s on the job.”

“Jewelry?”

“A simple gold chain around his neck. No watch—he sold his Rolex after the storm ruined him. He wouldn’t let me give him another one.”

Gina nodded. “Clean-shaven?”

“Well, sometimes he’ll go a couple of days without a razor. He looks so hot when he does that…” Marina bit her acrylic nail again and this time she succeeded in cracking it. She stared at the nail as if it were a metaphor for her heart: Split down the middle with a jagged edge. The difference was that she could pay two dollars to have the nail repaired.

“When did Ben leave? Any idea where he’s gone?”

“H-he left when I went for my Tuesday massage. I came back totally relaxed—this guy Manuel is amazing—and I found the note, propped up against Gnarly’s food canister.”

“Did you say Gnarly?”

Marina nodded and tears started falling in fat droplets onto her quite-salty-enough nose. “Gnarly is the cat from his landscaping business. He showed up out of the blue one day and his fur, poor thing, was so snarled and matted and filthy that we called him Gnarly. I went to a vet for the equivalent of kitty Valium, got him nice and dopey and gave him a bubble bath. Then I spent three hours on him with a comb and a pair of scissors—some parts of his coat were beyond help. He’s the most beautiful cat now. But we still call him Gnarly.”

No doubt about it, Gina was hiding a smile. It was a nice one, not mocking. Still, Marina was suddenly conscious that she’d been babbling, focusing on an issue that didn’t make her cry. She felt…fluffy…next to Gina Keys. Had Ben left because she was fluffy? Because he didn’t take her seriously?

She’d never been more serious about a man than she was about Ben. She’d brave stretch marks and labor and the ruination of her breasts to have his children….

“So the note was next to his food. What did it say, exactly?”

Marina cleared her throat. “Well, it’s kind of personal and embarrassing.”

“I’m sure this is hard for you, Ms. Reston. But I really need to gather all the pertinent information in order to help you.”

Marina nodded and squelched the full-fledged bawl that threatened to get past her tonsils. “Okay. He said…it said…that I am still his amor, his corazón, his vida, but because he lost everything he can no longer give me any kind of a future—” Her voice cracked again.

“And so I have to forget him. I’m not to offer him my money because he won’t take it, won’t be an aprovechado. I think that means ‘kept man’ or something. And because he knows I’m not listening to him properly—ha!—he will put it in very blunt, vulgar terms—he can no longer afford me.” She said the last words bitterly.

Just thinking about it made her furious. Marina jumped out of her chair. “Cannot afford me! Like I’m some kind of greedy call girl!”

Gina Keys blinked at her.

“I don’t ask him to pay my bills,” Marina ranted, cut to the core. “He doesn’t need to. But it’s not my fault that my father died and left me a lot of money!”

“No,” Gina agreed politely, “I’m sure it’s not.”

“I run charities! I give back to the community! I’m not a wart on society’s butt.”

Gina choked on a sip of coffee from a foam cup on her desk.

“This is all about stupid, stiff-necked, macho, moronic male pride. And he’s ruining our lives.” Marina dropped her face into her hands and the bawl rolled right through the teeth she’d just paid almost a thousand dollars to have whitened.

She couldn’t control her grief. “I love him,” she said with a hiccup. “I can’t live without him. I can’t sleep and I can’t eat. I feel as if I’m going to explode—go through the roof.” Something nudged her arm and she raised her head to find it was Gina’s tissue box again.

“I’m sorry,” said the P.I., looking uncomfortable. “I promise I’ll find him.” She paused. “Look, I hate to say this, but you should be prepared—he may have gone to ground with a former girlfriend or even a new one.”

Marina shook her head. “Ben isn’t like that.”

“Mmm,” Gina said, in noncommittal tones. She sat down again, and Marina picked up her purse from the floor. She sat down again, too.

“Sorry. I’ll get hold of myself.”

“Take your time. Does Ben have a second home somewhere?”

“No.”

“Would he have gone to family?”

Marina shook her head. “He hates his stepfather, so he wouldn’t have gone to his mother in Venezuela. His older brother is in the navy and his half siblings are younger, still in school.”

“How about his father?”

“I already called him. Ben’s not there.”

“He could be covering for him.”

Marina nodded slowly.

“What kind of car does Ben drive, and do you have a license-plate number?”

Marina gave her the information, along with his date of birth.

“Where does Ben like to hang out in his spare time? What are his hobbies? Does he go to an athletic club or a sports bar or to the beach or to a shooting range…”

“Ben doesn’t—didn’t—have a lot of time for hobbies. He does lift weights and he likes to run on the beach, but to relax he plans and builds projects. Works with his hands. He enjoys that type of thing.”

“What kinds of projects?”

Marina firmly squelched another rising sob. “He did beautiful cabinetry on two walls of my garage. He put in a koi pond in my backyard, with a Japanese footbridge and a teak gazebo. And we were getting ready to build a house together. He was always sketching ideas for that.”

She gave Gina every scrap of information that she thought might be helpful. “You’ll find him for me?”

Gina nodded. She exuded competence; she obviously didn’t miss much.

Compared to her, Marina didn’t just feel fluffy—she felt silly, sitting here in her expensive designer duds with her threehundred-dollar highlights, asking another woman to find her fiancé.

Usually she felt chic. But right now she felt idiotic and incompetent and miserable and unloved.

The P.I. said, “I will locate Ben Delgado.”

“Thank you.” Marina’s chin came up and once again she eschewed tears for anger. “Once I make sure he’s alive and uninjured, I’m going to kill him. And then I’ll wake him up and give him a piece of my mind. After that, I’ll kill him again, just so he really understands. And, finally, I’m going to marry the son of a bitch.”

Gina set her elbows on her desk and steepled her fingers, a corner of her mouth quirking up. “All righty then. Will that be cash, check or charge?”

2

BEN DELGADO felt like the worst kind of shit-heel. He’d left his fiancée cold, but it was for her own good. A woman in the top echelons of Miami society couldn’t marry a loser without a cent to his name.

Besides, when a man lost his money and his livelihood, it was simply a question of time before his wife hit the road. That must be the reason those bad country songs were so popular. The ones yodeling about losing your woman, your pickup and your dog all in one night. They were true.

Witness to what his own mother had done, his dad had made a few lousy investments, had three consecutive deals fall through and, next thing he knew, his wife had taken off for Venezuela with his two boys. She’d lost no time divorcing him and marrying a better provider—some guy she’d met on a plane, for God’s sake.

Ben grimaced and picked up his cordless phone. So maybe he was a little cynical, but he had reason to be. Best not to get married at all, not have his heart ripped out and his children stolen. He could see it now: his kids brought up by a golfplaying cretin in plaid shorts with an alligator on his chest. No way.

Logic intruded as he dialed builder Mathew Tremaine’s business line and asked to speak to him. Tremaine was the man he and Marina had picked to build their dream house.

Logic tried to tell Ben that Marina Reston didn’t have to worry about finding anyone to provide for her. She could stuff mattresses with hundred-dollar bills, use them as wallpaper. For God’s sake, the woman headed up a foundation that funded thirty different charities.

But, for some reason, logic wasn’t getting through. The fact that Marina had her own money just made the loss of his even worse. The playing field, and therefore the power, was too uneven between them….

“Tremaine speaking.”

“Hi, Mathew. It’s Ben.”

“Benny! Good to hear from you. Thought you’d fallen off the face of the earth—I never heard back from you after I’d sent you the latest round of blueprints.”

Ben cleared his throat. “Yeah. About that—Hurricane Ernestine has wiped me out, buddy. We’re, ah, not going to be able to build our dream house after all. In fact—” he paused and chuckled weakly “—in fact, I can’t even afford to build a doghouse anymore.”

“You’re kidding,” Tremaine said.

“No, I’m not.”

“Your whole business?”

“The offices, the greenhouses, the barn—everything.”

Ben set his jaw and tried to block his mental panoramic view of the devastation. The sight of it in person had just about killed him, and he’d never forget it.

He’d had ten neat, productive greenhouses full of healthy, beautiful, tropical plants. He’d had a barn full of backhoes, tractors and other equipment.

He’d been proud of his neat offices on the property, with the paved patio, koi pond, fountain and atrium, where dozens of kindso fSouth American orchidsand bromeliads had flourished.

He’d built it all with his bare hands and the help of a few staffers, and now it was gone or destroyed. The walls of the barn had collapsed in on all the equipment. The winds had torn the greenhouses apart and scattered the contents everywhere. The roof over the offices had peeled back like the lid of a sardine can.

Floodwaters surged in and swept furniture and fixtures and business equipment away. To top it all off, mold and mildew had flourished over anything that was left.

Impotent fury gnawed at him all day, every day, because of it. The fact that others had shared the same fate didn’t help him deal with it at all—it just seemed so damned unfair. What had he done to piss off God? Was he cursed?

“It’s all gone or destroyed,” Ben said to Mathew. “Flattened. Splintered.”

The builder whistled. “I’m real sorry to hear that. We had some damage, but nothing like that. I don’t know what to say… Is it a total loss? What about the insurance? And—” He paused.

Ben heard clearly the words Mathew didn’t say. And isn’t Marina loaded? Couldn’t she build a palace in Monaco if she wanted to?

“Yes. It’s a total loss. My insurance company is claiming that most of the damage was done by water, and I didn’t have a separate flood policy. My lawyer isn’t getting anywhere with them. They won’t budge. I’m screwed.”

“I’m real sorry to hear that,” Tremaine said again. “Anything I can do?”

Ben swallowed. Oh, hell. This was ten times worse than he’d thought it would be. He tried to swallow his pride, but it burned an unholy path down his throat and scorched his intestines. He could feel it flaming in his stomach, smoldering, blackening a hole right through him. Just say it, Delgado. Say it.

“Yes, Mathew. As a matter of fact, there is something you can do. Do you have any openings with your construction crew?”

“Why, sure. You’ve got a good heart, looking out for your employees like this. Send them on over—I can always use a few more men.”

Ben squirmed. “You’ve got a good heart for taking them on. Thanks. But…it’s not just for the workers. It’s for me.”

A shocked silence ensued. “Christ, Delgado. You? You’ve got education, you’ve got managerial experience, you’ve had your own business. Why the hell do you want to work for me? There’s loads of opportunities for you to repair storm damage to vegetation and landscaping. You could make a killing right now—”

“I can’t do it, Mathew,” Ben said flatly. “I get too angry. My equipment is trashed, I can’t pay my suppliers or my guys, my insurance company is useless—it all puts me in a rage. I’ve got to calm down and do something else for a while. Get my bearings back.”

Again, he could hear exactly what Tremaine wasn’t saying. Couldn’t your rich fiancée pay your guys for five years over? Buy heavy equipment outright? Send her high-powered attorneys to sue the pants off your insurance company?

In quiet but concrete-firm tones, Ben said it. “I will not go to Marina for help. I can’t. It’s demeaning. Please, Mathew. Give me a job. You know my work ethic. I won’t let you down.”

“Of course you won’t let me down, you crazy bastard. I’ve seen the projects you’ve done around Marina’s… I just think you need your head examined. But I know better than to argue with you.” Tremaine sighed. “Well, c’mon, then. Get yourself over here and fill out an application. If you want, you can start work today.”

“Thank you. This means everything—I hope you know that. And one day, even if it’s years from now, you and I will build that house. It’s a promise.”

Mathew hesitated for a split second. “Glad to hear it.” Once again, Ben had no trouble reading his thoughts. You and I? What about Marina? What’s going on?

The truth was, Ben couldn’t have told him, since he wasn’t sure himself. All he knew was that he couldn’t go forward with the relationship or the wedding. He felt…worthless.

And though he loved Marina, she was hands-down the most expensive woman he’d ever dated. Her idea of saving money was to go stay at the Paris Ritz for only three weeks, instead of a full month.

She economized by getting a ten percent discount on an entire case of Cristal, instead of buying eleven bottles at full cost. Or buying couture off the rack and having it tailored to her body, instead of commissioning a gown from scratch.

She didn’t deliberately rub her money into his face—never. It was simply that she’d never lived any other way, so she didn’t have a clue how other people managed.

Marina had a huge heart, and she gave away twenty times what she spent, but still…

He thought about Miami’s Reston Humane Society, the RestonChildren’s Hospital in Palm Beach, the Reston Alzheimer’sResearch Facility in Boca Raton. The countrywide Frameworksfor the Future, an organization that built homes for the needy,which was Reston Foundation-funded.

Speaking of Frameworks for the Future, when was that calendar shoot Marina had talked him in to doing? He’d have to call the foundation and talk to Liz Olmos, the administrator. Because he sure as hell wasn’t calling Marina—even though he’d felt guilty at her distraught messages. She needed to forget him.

Ben knew that a man was more than the money he made, but he felt like a failure in the face of Marina’s wealth. And he couldn’t be her husband—or anyone else’s—when he was a failure.

MARINA HAD no problem combining business with pleasure. Why not run numbers while naked and slathered with rosemary-peppermint oil?

She shrewdly eyed the column of figures a foot beneath her face and, once again, examined the total. It was off. She knew it in her bones. And she knew who was responsible.

“Ms. Reston,” Manuel said as he kneaded her lower back and the tops of her glutes, “you shouldn’t be going over accounts right now. The point of a massage is to relax.”

“I know, sweetie, but I need to figure out what’s wrong here. I don’t mind giving money away to worthy causes, but I get very bent out of shape when someone’s skimming funds for their own personal use.”

“Someone’s stealing from you?”

“I’m getting that feeling. Unfortunately, it happens every couple of years. Somebody I employ makes the mistake of thinking that I won’t notice, that I’m stupid or careless simply because I like to shop and have my hair done. Can you imagine?”

Manuel coughed. “No, ma’am.”

She eyed him a bit suspiciously and then drummed her polished fingernails on the Excel printout, which lay on top of a rolling stool under her nose. It was a little difficult to see with her face mashed into the padded, doughnutlike head support of the massage table, but the hole in the middle did enable her to do some work even under Manuel’s expert ministrations.

He worked magic on her muscles, but she couldn’t relax. The person skimming funds was a single mom. A hard worker. Someone struggling to make ends meet.

She’d had no problem having the cokehead intern arrested when he’d raided the petty cash to fund his habit. But this?

Marina continued to study the figures and traced a pattern. Her employee skimmed funds only once per month, as if before some bill were due. Hmm…

Though she could examine numbers this way, the tricky part was when her cell phone rang. Logistically, it was impossible to talk to anyone with her face mashed into a padded doughnut. “Manuel, darling, would you look at the LCD display on my phone and see who’s calling? Thank you. You’re a gem.”

“G K Investigations,” reported Manuel.

Marina scrambled up so fast that the sheet covering her body dropped to the floor. Manuel blushed like a tomato—she was naked as a jaybird and on all fours, butt in the air. Mama would be so proud.

Manuel averted his eyes and bent to retrieve the sheet while she sat down hastily and crossed everything she could cross to hide her nudity.

Eyes glazed over, he practically threw the sheet at her, and she said, “Excuse me, but I have to take this.” She smiled apologetically. Who knew? Manuel wasn’t gay.

Still scarlet-faced, he nodded and left the room. Marina pressed the On button of her phone. “Hello?”

“Ms. Reston? This is Gina Keys. I’ve located Mr. Delgado.”

A sob rose in Marina’s throat. Then joy shot through her veins. “He’s okay?”

“He’s just fine.”

Fury chased the joy. “Where is he? I’m going to go wring his neck. I’m going to gouge out his eyes with his engagement ring…” There she went with those cheery fantasies again.

“Ms. Reston, I’m afraid I can’t tell you his location.”

“What? What do you mean? I paid you up front to find him!”

Gina cleared her throat. “Perhaps I should have explained this before. For liability reasons, I can’t directly give you information on his whereabouts. What I can do is personally contact him and inform him that you would like to speak to him.”

“He knows damn well I want to speak to him. I’ve left nine messages on his cell phone! And what is this liability stuff?”

“I can be brought up on criminal charges, Ms. Reston, if I tell you where he is and you, say, show up with a shotgun and blow him away.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t own a shotgun.”

“A letter-opener, arsenic, a crossbow, a high-heeled shoe. I can’t take the chance—you did mention in my presence that you wanted to kill him. Twice, I believe.”

“I was kidding!”

“That’s beside the point.”

“What is he doing? Can you tell me that?”

“I suppose so,” Gina said cautiously. “He’s working construction.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know, Ms. Reston. You’ll have to ask him that.”

“Where is he?” Marina moaned. “Please, please tell me. I have to find him.”

“I really can’t give you Ben’s exact location. It’s not ethical for me to do that. But would you like to give me a message for him?”

“Aaarrrgh!” said Marina.

“Sorry, but that’s a bit hard to translate. How about a letter?”

“I’ve had enough of letters, thank you very much.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Just tell him I’ve been worried sick and to please call me. It’s important. Do not pass along the part about killing him.”

“No, of course not.”

Marina sighed. “Okay, Gina. Thank you. Now, exactly what do I owe you for not telling me where he is? Oh, fudge. I don’t care. Just send me a bill.”

IN HER OFFICE at the Reston Foundation, Marina leaned back in her leather chair and rubbed her bare feet on the mink-covered foot-rest under her modern maple desk.

She did not believe in killing animals for their fur, but when your grandmother had already bought the mink in question in the form of a coat, what were you to do? She refused to wear it—not that it was possible here in Miami—and so she’d used it for other things.

One of her great pleasures in life was to sit naked on her mink-upholstered vanity stool while she did her makeup and hair—or obsessed about where to find her fiancé.

Working construction.

Now, there were any number of places that Ben could be doing that…but again, a gut instinct had her dialing Mathew Tremaine’s number. Ben would have wanted to look out for his employees, find them other placement. He’d call Tremaine. And if he was working construction himself, then it was quite possible that he’d ask Mathew to hire him, too.

Just as Tremaine’s assistant answered the phone at his office, she hung up. Better to do this in person and be able to see his face.

An hour later, Marina swept into his office, her assets showcased in a tight, peridot-green silk top and black hot pants that were just shy of indecent. Tendrils of her chestnut hair cascaded from a loose knot on her head, secured by two decorative chopsticks. Gold and peridot chandelier earrings dangled midway to her shoulders and a large peridot tear-drop nestled just at the top of her abundant cleavage.

“Mathew! Darling! How have you been?”

Tremaine had the body of a scarecrow and the face of a bullfrog, topped by sparse graying hair. His odd appearance hid a creative mind and great generosity, but the guy was always a little challenged in the babe department. Marina felt a bit guilty taking advantage of this, but the end justified the means.

His pale gaze darted to her cleavage and stuck there as if superglued. He couldn’t help it, poor man—she’d engineered her outfit with that result in mind. So she didn’t hold it against him. Marina repeated her question, since he seemed not to have registered it the first time.

“Mathew. How are you?”

He gulped as she leaned forward to brush one of Gnarly’s hairs off her knee. Then she sent him a dazzling smile.

“Just fine,” he almost squeaked.

“Wonderful. Listen, I wanted to ask you something about the plans for our house.”

Discomfort crossed his face. “Er—the house?”

She nodded.

“I thought—that is—um. I thought you and Ben weren’t, ah, going to build it after all.”

She dropped her Vuitton bag in his visitor’s chair and put her hands on her hips. “Wherever did you get that idea, silly?”

“Ben told me yesterday.”

Aha! They’d been in touch. “Really. Well, that’s news to me. You know,” she said, fiddling with her earring and batting her eyelashes, “he did say he’d be out of pocket for a while, but…”

Mathew’s eyes almost popped out of his head as she shamelessly forced her shoulders back so that the twins thrust forward, launching like pleasure missiles.

She cocked her head and turned a melting gaze upon him. “Oh, gosh. This is a tiny bit embarrassing, but…darling Mathew…do you know where he is?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Tremaine said, rapidly blinking. Then he fixed her with a too-bland stare.

“Mmm.” She sashayed forward and sat on the edge of his desk, never taking her eyes off his.

He swallowed convulsively and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. His gaze fell into her cleavage again.

Marina leaned forward some more and shook her finger at him. “Naughty, naughty, Mathew. Didn’t your mama ever tell you not to lie?”

He blushed to the roots of his hair. “Lie?”

Her voice low and husky, she said, “I should spank you, bad boy.”

His eyes glazed over and he almost drooled onto his desk. “Sp-spank?”

“Mmm-hmm. Take down your pants and—”

He shot backward in his rolling chair and crossed one leg over the other, clasping his hands over his crotch. He wiped sweat from his temple with the back of one hand. “Ms. Reston, please.”

“Please what, honey?” She moistened her lips.

He jerked at his tie as if strangled.

“Where is Ben, sweetie? C’mon, you can tell me. I know he’s working construction. Is he on the job at that new auto dealership you’re doing?”

Tremaine shook his head.

“Then—” She tapped her fingernails on his desk “—on site at the lieutenant-governor’s beach house?”

“N-no.”

She sauntered around the desk and grabbed his chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Where is he, honey? Don’t be a bad boy, now. Tell Miss Marina where Benny is. I know he’s working for you.”

She didn’t, but bluffing got her the information.

“Davie,” he gasped, cross-eyed, his nose disappearing into her cleavage. “Our big condo units there.”

“Oh, Mathew.” Marina smiled. “I could kiss you.” She stepped back and then did kiss him, right on the mouth. No tongue action, though—she had to draw the line somewhere.

Tremaine sat stunned and paralyzed as she picked up her purse, hitched it over her shoulder and walked to the door. His eyes were riveted helplessly to her ass, as if it were a priceless piece of art and he were a collector.

Just to punish him a little for trying to keep Ben’s whereabouts from her, she rolled her hips with the last few steps and shot him a provocative look over her shoulder.

Evil? Not at all. Women had to use what power they had in this man’s world.

“Thanks, babe,” she said. “You enjoy the rest of your day, now. And don’t worry—I never reveal a source.”

3

MARINA GUNNED the Porsche down a dirt road in Davie, Florida. She wore a very short, painted-on white jean-skirt, hand-embellished with embroidery that climbed her hips and blossomed on the small seat. The button on the fly had been imported from Morocco and the artist had signed the low-dipping waistband.

Giuseppe Zanotti had crafted her sandals, Catherine Malandrino had sculpted her clingy, belly-baring top and Bobbi Brown took responsibility for her lush lips and full, expertly lined lashes. God had given her a set of long, slim legs; her trainer had perfected them. God had not provided her highlights or her voluptuous bustline, but Marina would go to her grave swearing that He had.

She had dressed to kill and, if she did say so herself, she looked like hot sex on a stick. Ben would drop to his knees and crawl after her.

She pleasantly envisioned herself planting her bejeweled toes in the center of his forehead, so he had to suck on her spike heel. Then he’d beg her forgiveness….

The 911 sped around a last curve leading to a vast construction site that teemed with hot, sweaty, shirtless men framing out a very large building. According to Mathew Tremaine, one of those hot, sweaty, shirtless men was Ben.

She squealed the car to a halt, unbuckled her seat belt and vaulted out, her chestnut hair streaming in the wind. Several guys on the crew stopped work to stare as she strode toward them wearing her oversized Dior sunglasses. One of them whistled, one clapped a hand over his heart and another almost stepped on his tongue.

“Hello, boys.” Marina accepted a big beefy hand up onto the concrete slab and rewarded its owner with a dazzling smile. Then her gaze narrowed on a set of familiar shoulder blades about a hundred feet away.

Ben’s back was brown from the sun and rippled with muscle as he bent toward his task. Sweat ran in rivulets down his spine; dotted his neck and soaked his hair. She stood stock-still in helpless female appreciation at the way his torso segued into a narrow waist and slim hips; at the firm, well-developed backside under his leather tool belt, the long legs encased in filthy jeans.

Delgado personified power. Raw, dirty, animal force—dear God, her Ben had it in spades. No matter how angry or hurt or devastated she was, he was the kind of man a woman would lift her dress for. Hungrily. Shamelessly. Almost involuntarily—not having any real choice about it.

As if he could sense her gaze on his bare back, Ben turned, his eyes widening as he saw her. For a split second, she felt that naked, helpless feeling and she craved the scent of his skin as it moved over hers. Then he broke the spell himself.

“Go away,” he said.

Rage and frustrated love exploded inside her. “You son of a bitch!” she shrieked.

He closed his eyes, while every man on the site turned and stared, now. She didn’t care.

Relief burst within her next. He was alive, not broken and bleeding in a ditch somewhere, or unconscious from pills or booze. It was one thing for Gina Keys to tell her—and quite another for Marina to see it herself.

“How could you? How could you do this to me, Ben? I’ve been a wreck, worrying about you!”

“Marina, mi amor, get back into your car and go home. This isn’t the time or the place—”

She ran at him, her fists clenched. “A letter, you coward? How could you break up with me in a letter? You didn’t have the nerve to say it to my face?”

Marina reached him and threw a wild punch at his chest.

Ben allowed her to hit him once, then twice.

“A letter?” called one of the onlookers. “Christ, Delgado. That’s cold.”

Another guy spit on the ground. “Whoa. You let this little hottie go?”

Ben’s eyes snapped in annoyance.

She hit him again, and he grasped her wrist and held it. She threw her Chanel purse at him with the other hand, began to cry and then aimed a fist at his solar plexus. He commandeered it, too, before she made contact, staring down at her with those dark, unfathomable eyes of his.

“That’s right, Benny, you show her who’s boss,” some lowlife hollered.

“How did you find me?” Ben growled.

“What do you care?” She struggled in his grasp, all too aware that her cool, carefully calculated image had gone up in smoke. She could feel the heat radiating off his skin, smell his perspiration and the leather of his tool belt and the cool mint of his breath as he held her captive. “Let me go!”

In spite of her anger, a sexual current shot through her, a primal response to the ripped expanse of muscle, the rock-hard chest inches away from her. A mere glance from Ben could cause her nipples to ache and, at the moment, his eyes roamed over her from head to toe.

Her mouth went dry and her knees almost buckled at the look on his face: Hungry, punishing, loving—all at the same time. He looked as if he wanted to screw every inch of her—and it made her feel faint.

Another male voice called, “This little filly is on the market, Delgado?”

Ben’s mouth tightened.

“We’ll take her off your hands, buddy,” yelled another one. More whistles and catcalls ensued. A guy with three belly rolls grabbed his crotch suggestively.

Ben silenced them with a look and loomed over her protectively. “Damn it, Marina, why did you come here?” He released her wrists and shook her gently by the shoulders. Then his mouth crushed hers and his arms wrapped around her as if he’d never let her go.

All thoughts of killing him flew out of her head as she helplessly kissed him back. He lifted her, she wrapped her legs around him. Before she knew it, they were off the concrete slab in a hail of lewd, encouraging cheers and Ben was striding toward the construction trailer with her.

She forgot about power, about dignity, about hurt. She couldn’t care less about his dirt or his sweat or his ripe male odor. All that mattered was him plastered against her, his lips to her lips, his chest to her chest, his sex to her sex.

The bulge in his jeans pressed into the scrap of lingerie at the heart of her, and she almost came before they got to the trailer door.

Frigid, artificial air washed over her as he wrenched it open, stumbled up the steps and inside and locked the door behind them. Then he set her on top of a battered vertical filing cabinet, rucked up her skirt and tore off her panties.

His face pressed between her thighs, his tongue pushed in side her and she screamed helplessly. He didn’t stop when she convulsed and beat her heels on his back, just pulled her forward, settling his big hands under her buttocks and feasting on her until she came again and again and finally begged him to stop.

He pulled her skimpy top and bra down around her waist and devoured her breasts, suckling the tips until she thought she’d die of needing him inside her.

He tore open his fly, freed the hard, heavy length of him and scooped her up again. Then he drove into her with a primal groan.

She spasmed around him again immediately, colors bursting behind her eyelids, while he drove harder, faster, deeper, sliding against her flesh until the tensing of his muscles, the guttural groan, the last mighty thrust told her he’d come, too.

“Dios mío, Marina. Dios mío. Te amo.” One hand still supported her bottom, one clasped her to him.

Just hearing his words almost made her come again, all by herself. He loved her. He loved her… Everything was going to be okay. This was all just a big mistake, an emotional reaction on his part.

They collapsed to the floor, breathing heavily, Marina calm and blissful. “Whose trailer is this?” she asked.

“The foreman’s. He’s at a meeting, lucky for us.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she said.

“Neither did I.”

“I was going to cut you off for the next five years.”

He sat up; was silent. Pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

“Ben tell me—what are you doing here?”

“What does it look like? I’m working construction.”

“Why did you leave me that letter and disappear? When are you coming home?”

Ben sucked in a breath and got to his feet, six foot two of naked, sweaty sex-god. His abs were like steel; his biceps as big around as her thighs. He pulled up his boxers and jeans without a word.

Marina sat up, pulled down her skirt and narrowed her eyes on him. Surely, his body language wasn’t telling her what she thought it was? “Ben? You are coming home?”

He sighed wearily. “It’s all in the letter, querida. What else do you want me to say?”

She began to shake. “You can’t mean that stuff.”

He folded his arms across his naked torso and raised his stubborn chin. “I mean every word of that stuff, as you call it. I will not get married until I can take care of my wife. And right now I don’t have two cents to rub together.”

“Ben, this doesn’t make sense. We love each other. I have millions of dollars—you don’t need to have those two cents! I don’t need to be taken care of. What’s mine is yours, baby, you know that… I didn’t even ask you to sign a prenup. I wouldn’t!”

His voice emerged deadly calm and quiet. “I am not a parasite. I will not live off of my wife.”

“Ben, be reasonable. If our situations were reversed, I would take help from my fiancé when I needed it!”

He held up a hand. “No.”

“Marriage is about love, not finances. It’s about being there for each other—”

“Marina, this discussion is over. I will not take your money. I will not take your charity.”

“Then call it a loan, if you have to! Just don’t leave me, don’t hurt me like this, please, Ben. I love you…” She began to cry again, to her shame.

“Come here, mi corazón.” He pulled her up off the floor and gathered her into his arms. “Shh. Shh, Marina. Te amo, never doubt that. I love you. But I will not let you make me less of a man.”

“I’m not doing any such thing!”

“Not intentionally, mi vida.”

“Not at all! Please, don’t be so pigheaded, so stupid—”

He pushed her away but held her by the shoulders. His eyes went dark and cold and his tone hardened. “Don’t you ever call my integrity stupid. You’re lucky I’m not some vividor who will move in on you and wallow in your money, use you, rob you blind.”

She stared at him through still-streaming eyes. “Oh, I’m lucky, am I? Because I’ve had the good fortune to fall in love with a man who puts his pride ahead of everything else? A man who is such a coward that he leaves me in a letter—”

“Goddamn it, Marina! I couldn’t face you, and that’s the truth. I didn’t want to see you cry. Beg. Debase yourself—”

She gasped. Then she drew back her hand and slapped him, hard. Right across his arrogant, prideful, stubborn, macho cheek.

Ben stared at her.

“How dare you?” she asked, her voice shaking. “You call this debasement? Me, trying to talk sense into you and salvage what we have together? God doesn’t bless two people with our kind of love very often, Benjamin Delgado! And you—you want to throw it away because of money. Well, that’s sad. In fact, it’s tragic.”

“I told you that this discussion is over!” He roared the words this time, his eyes blazing.

She stamped her foot. “No, it’s not. It’s not over until I, at least, get one hell of an apology from you, Ben. You want to live a lonely life with your pride, then that’s your choice. But I deserved better than to be told you can’t afford me. I deserved a face-to-face conversation.”

Marina straightened the rest of her clothes while Ben turned away, apparently too angry to speak.

“The truth hurts, doesn’t it, you jerk? And how could you have slept with me just now when you knew you hadn’t changed your mind? You don’t think that debased me? Hell, I should charge you! What am I worth? Let’s call it five hundred bucks. I’ll take it in cash from you, right now.”

He swung around, face white, and took a step toward her. “Marina!”

She held out her hand, palm up. “C’mon. Give it to me,” she said in scathing tones.

“Stop it.”

“Oh, that’s right. How could I forget? You can’t afford me.”

She threw open the door and clattered down the trailer steps. Her face burned; her whole body burned. She ran to her car, threw open the door, fumbled her keys into the ignition and shot back down the dirt road.

In her rearview mirror, she could see Ben, still standing in the trailer’s doorway, looking stricken.

“OOOH-EEEEE, she’s one stacked little spitfire. You get some action, amigo?”

Ben stopped in his tracks and turned the full force of his glare on the pendejo lounging against a sawhorse on site. “Do not make the mistake of disrespecting my fiancée, chivo de mierda. Do you understand me?”

The guy dropped his cigarette butt in the dirt and stepped on it. “Okay, okay, man. Chill out.”

Ben stalked by him and swung himself back onto the big slab. As he approached the crew he was working with, silence fell, which told him he was the topic of their conversation, too. It didn’t improve his temper.

Why the hell had Marina come here? To torment him? To upset them both? To make a spectacle out of herself?

He thought he’d made his position crystal clear. He found nothing unreasonable about it. To marry her now would make him a gigolo. He was goddamned if he’d move into her fancy house, drive one of her spare luxury cars and be given an allowance like a ten-year-old. He’d sooner shoot himself.

It’s not a question of loving her, it’s a question of having balls. I’m a man, not a mistress! Why can’t she understand that?

Why did it make him a bad person that he had principles? That he refused to take advantage of her? Perhaps some people would consider his scruples ridiculous, but they weren’t to him.

It already bothered him greatly when she bought him clothes, and he’d refused to accept the Testarossa she’d unwisely had delivered for his last birthday. He hadn’t even opened the candy-apple-red door—he’d just called the dealer and made them pick it up again within the hour.

She’d been hurt. She hadn’t understood what it had cost him to do that. Did he appreciate the gesture? Of course. The Testarossa was his dream car. He’d drooled over the damn thing. He’d practically wanted to lick it. But he couldn’t accept it. He had his pride.

But his mindset was a lot more complex than simple pride, whatever she thought. He couldn’t explain it, not even to his own satisfaction.

When his father had lost all his money, he’d relinquished some part of himself as well as his wife and family. He’d become vulnerable and somehow…weak, which was unacceptable to Ben.

He didn’t want to be weak, suck on Marina’s money like a niño at the breast. He recoiled from the idea, even as her words came back to him. You want to live a lonely life with your pride, that’s your problem.

Ben picked up the nail gun he’d been using and tried to block out the look on her face, bitter and hurt, so hurt.

Why don’t you take up kicking puppies, man? Mugging little old ladies? Tripping kids on tricycles?

He began driving nails into wooden studs so savagely that the men around him exchanged glances and moved away.

The noise of a circular saw behind him would normally have grated on his nerves. But right now it came as a relief, drowning out the sound of Marina’s voice in his head.

Did he owe her an apology for breaking up with her in a letter? Could she be right—was he a coward? She didn’t mean physically. She meant emotionally.

But that didn’t matter—he didn’t like it. Not one bit. Delgados weren’t cowards of any sort.

Shit. Shit! Ben misfired with the nail gun, narrowly avoiding his own thumb. He drew back his booted foot and kicked a bag of concrete mix nearby.

He’d thought a letter would be simpler. Cleaner. More final. Right there in black-and-white.

It had never occurred to him that it might be cowardly. That it might upset Marina even more.

I deserved better than to be told you can’t afford me… I deserved a face-to-face conversation.

He realized now that he’d given her the equivalent of a pink slip, with no discussion. She had a right to be angry about it. Ben threw down the nail gun and stripped off his work gloves.

Oh, hell. He did owe her an apology.

4

MARINA ALTERNATED between sipping a glass of cabernet and booking various beauty treatments to make herself feel better. Ben Delgado is a pig. Ben Delgado is not worthy of me. Ben Delgado dumped me again, and this time while I was sprawled naked in a double-wide!

She switched from sipping to gulping the sixty-dollar-a-bottle wine. Grapes: They did a body good. Wine was full of antioxidants, it was great for the heart and it contained fewer calories and carbs than chocolate. Wine is a veritable health food. She knocked back another gulp.

Why was Ben being so unreasonable?

Perhaps he had seen signs of cellulite on her thighs? She hit a number on speed dial and arranged for three sessions of endermologie, beginning tomorrow. It was a new process involving a machine that somehow broke up fatty deposits under the skin—rather like steamrolling one’s butt back to an acceptable flatness.

Or maybe her lips weren’t plump enough. She dialed Dr. Davinsky’s office, stat, and arranged for a collagen injection, even though she’d never had one and didn’t at all like the thought of being injected with a big needle right on the kisser. But Angelina Jolie had enslaved another woman’s husband with her pucker. Surely, Marina could take a little pain so as to enslave her own husband to be?

She peered into her mirror in the bathroom and inspected the pale down on her upper lip. Her lighted, magnified looking glass made it appear that she had a mustache to rival Errol Flynn’s. What good were bodacious lips if you had fur above them?

She hit another button on speed dial and signed up for a laser treatment to remove the offending hairs. She wondered if she should take care of the hair under her arms with laser treatment, too. And what about her legs, or maybe her whole pubic area? Hmm.

She’d heard that it really hurt. And one day she might be in a nursing home and didn’t want the staff there to check out her permanent, gray Brazilian and assume she’d been a pole dancer in her youth… On the other hand, she’d never have to get a bikini wax again.

The phone rang as Marina tried to make up her mind. “Hello?”

Her best friend, Chloe’s, nasal New York accent boomed into her ear. “Hi, doll. How ya doin’?”

“Ugh,” said Marina. “That about sums it up.”

“Okay so what are you doin’?”

“Nothing. Drinking a glass of wine. Through a hot pink crazy-straw.”

“At two o’clock in the afternoon. Uh-oh. I take it things did not go well with Ben. Tell me you’re not scheduling forty weird-ass cosmetic procedures, or obsessing over whether one of your kneecaps is rounder than the other.”

“I—”

“Oh, God. You are. Listen to me, Marina—this is a psychotic condition of yours. You do this every time you get depressed. And you don’t need anything done!”

Marina gathered the shreds of her dignity around her—she’d left most of it back at the construction site with Ben. “I am not,” she stated, “mentally ill. And we can all use a little improvement here and there.”

“Uh-huh. How many appointments have you made this afternoon?”

Time for a subject change. “Did you see that there’s a sale at Saks?”

Chloe didn’t bite. “How many?”

Damn. Marina sighed. “Five.”

“Oh, my God!” Chloe bellowed into her ear. “No. I am coming over and we are going to cancel them.”

“Chloe, leave me alone—”

“I’m bringing ice cream. Normal women eat a quart of ice cream when they’re depressed. They don’t have their entire bodies resurfaced, like some kind of molting reptile. Are you going to dye your hair blond, too? Get a third breast?”

Marina jumped up from her mink-covered stool. “I can’t eat ice cream. Are you crazy? It will go straight to my hips and Ben will never look at me again.”

“Not only am I bringing ice cream—four different flavors—but you and I are going to have a serious talk about what Ben really loves about you, and it’s not your bony hips!” Chloe hung up on her, and Marina stared at the receiver.

“Jeez. No need to get hostile.”

Thirty minutes later, her friend was knocking on her door with an entire grocery sack full of pints of Ben & Jerry’s and Häagen-Dazs. Marina squinted at her. “You’re the devil.”

“It’s great to see you, too. Now, either invite me in or get out of my way so I can barge in,” said Chloe. “By the way, Ben would love the way you look right now.”

Marina looked down in horror. She wore a ratty gray T-shirt of his with the arms ripped out and a pair of panties. That was it. “Are you high?”

Chloe shook her head, shoved past her and made her way to the granite-topped kitchen island, where she started unloading the ice cream and pulling off various lids. Then she got a fork for each one and stabbed it into the center of every container.

Marina shook her head. “Don’t you realize how demented it is to eat ice cream with a fork?”

“Not any more demented than drinking good wine through a crazy-straw. Besides, it’s practical. Ice cream is usually too hard to eat with a spoon. With a fork, you can jab into it and dig out the good stuff.”

Marina shook her head and tried to psych herself out of attacking the ice cream. “There is no good stuff. It’s just fat, sugar and liquid squeezed out of a cow, which is a disgusting, smelly, filthy animal with four stomachs and no brain power. Plus, there are so many preservatives in that container that your butt will look like a sea sponge after one spoonful.”

Chloe pulled one of the forks out and threatened her with it. “There is something really, really wrong with you, honey. And there are no preservatives in Ben & Jerry’s or Häagen-Dazs. They’re chemical free, unlike—” she scanned Marina’s body “—your hair, your face, your boobs and your nails.”

Marina gasped. “My boobs are natural!”

“Yeah, just like my tiny waist. Save it,” said Chloe, around a huge forkful of Marsha Marsha Marshmallow. “I’ve seen the scars under your arms, remember?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Marina sucked at least three ounces of cabernet through the pink straw.

“Ice cream,” said Chloe, “doesn’t make you drunk.”

But Marina was determined to think of the stuff in the grossest possible way so she wouldn’t want it and it would not go straight to her thighs. “Why not just crawl under a cow, suck on its hairy udder and then squirt chocolate syrup into your mouth?”

Chloe set down her pint and eyed her with distaste. “Just because you won’t eat any does not give you the right to ruin my enjoyment of Ben & Jerry’s forever. Now, be quiet.”

“Yes, ma’am. Wait—isn’t this my house? My kitchen? My cow-free domain?” She yelped as Chloe came at her with the fork.

“Be nice. Be a good hostess. You invited me over—”

“Actually, I didn’t.”

“So tell me what happened with Ben and we’ll figure out how to fix it.”

Marina hunched her shoulders and stuck out her lower lip. She twisted the hem of her ratty T-shirt as she walked into the living room, dominated by white leather furniture and a breathtaking view of Biscayne Bay. “Ben says he loves me, but he hates my money.”

Chloe nodded as Marina kicked an ottoman with her bare foot and set down her wine.

“After all the guys who have been thrilled to date a rich woman with her own jet, I have to fall for the one guy who is uncomfortable with my filthy lucre!”

Chloe curled up in a big armchair with her ice cream and fork. “I have the perfect solution—give it to me.” She grinned.

“I should. I’d be a happier person and I wouldn’t have to keep on firing employees who steal from me.”

“Not another one.”

Marina nodded. “But this one’s a single mom, and I just can’t make myself pull the trigger. I know her daughter since she’s in school with my cousin’s daughter.”

“Okay, one problem at a time. We cannot solve them all in a day. What happened with Ben?”

Marina crawled onto the couch. “I tracked him down at one of Mathew Tremaine’s construction sites and we, um, had a chat.”

“A chat,” Chloe repeated, in disbelieving tones.

“It was all very civilized—”

“Yeah, right.” Her friend smirked. “How many times did you hit him? What names did you call him?”

“But he won’t change his mind. And I don’t know what to do.” She looked sadly down at her engagement ring, which Ben must have saved for two years to buy. It was a two-carat, pearshaped diamond that she’d simply forgotten to throw at him earlier in the day. She’d have to remedy that, but the thought depressed her even more.

The wine had made her emotional, because when she looked up again at Chloe her eyes streamed. “What can I do, Chlo?”

Her friend jumped up, set down her ice cream and gathered her into her arms. “Oh, honey. Is it really the money that’s bothering him? Or is it…” She paused and, uncharacteristically, stepped delicately. “Is it maybe your lifestyle that intimidates him?”

“What do you mean? I’m just a normal person.”

Chloe took a deep breath. “No, Marina, you’re not. I hate to break it to you, but most women can’t afford three-hundreddollar monthly highlights, six-hundred-dollar shoes or cute little custom-painted jets that take them to Paris at a moment’s notice.”

“You think he’d change his mind if I flew coach? Went to Super Cuts? Shopped at Payless?” Marina sucked the last of her wine through the crazy-straw.

“Well, I’m not sure it’s that simple, but maybe. I think your money intimidates Ben. Makes him feel like he’ll never make enough to be able to compete.”

Marina threw up her hands. “I don’t want him to compete! I don’t need him to compete.”

“Honey, you’re not getting what I’m saying. I’ll be blunt. Your financial situation makes Ben feel like he has a small penis.”

Marina gaped at her. “Ben Delgado is hung like a horse!”

Chloe closed her eyes and stuck her fingers in her ears. “Too much information!”

“Hey, you’re the one who brought up the topic of penises.” Marina pinched at the flesh of her thigh. “Do you think I need liposuction?”

“No!” yelled Chloe. “You need brain suction. See, this is exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about.”

“What is?”

“Normal women do not just go have liposuction on a whim. They save up for it for months, or run up their credit cards and have to pay them off slowly. It’s a big deal, not a narcissistic whim!”

Marina’s mouth trembled. “You’re saying I’m narcissistic?”

“No, no, no. Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetie. All I’m saying is that maybe you’re a teeny, tiny bit, um, self-absorbed. Just with the whole beauty thing—not in other areas.”

“Self-absorbed,” Marina repeated. “Ouch. I think you’ve officially hurt my feelings, Chlo.”

“Stop. Be hurt later. Right now we have to discuss this, if you love Ben and you want to hang on to him. He is in crisis at the moment, and you’re talking about your thighs!”

“But maybe that’s why he dumped me—guys don’t dump women who look perfect.”

“Yes, they do! Ben loves the Marina Reston who reads to sick kids in the hospital and speaks to the state legislature about education and public after-school programs. He loves the woman who endows thirty charities and has trouble firing a single mom.

“Ben does not love the woman who won’t eat even a tablespoon of ice cream and inspects her butt with a hand mirror every night, checking for dimples!”

“Who told you that?”

Relentless, Chloe forged on. “Ben does not love the Marina Reston who is obsessed with her appearance to the point of ridicule and spends a hundred-thousand dollars a year maintaining it—”

“I do not spend anywhere near that amount!”

“Add up the receipts for the clothes, the jewelry, the massages, the hair, the nails, the facials, the treatments and the cosmetic surgeries. Seriously, Marina, add them up and then ask yourself why Ben might be intimidated at the thought of marriage to you.”

“But I don’t ask him to pay for any of it,” Marina wailed.

“That’s not the point. The point is that he couldn’t if he wanted to. Men like to know they can keep their women happy. And I think he’s afraid that if you lost all your money tomorrow on the stock exchange, he wouldn’t be able to keep you happy.”

“So what are you saying?”

Chloe shrugged. “What do you think I’m saying? Prove to him that you can live without any of it.”

Marina stared at her, appalled. Life without massages and facials and trips to Paris?

Then she thought about the alternative: life without Ben. That was much, much worse.

She got up and padded into the kitchen, where she stared at the other three melting pints of ice cream with forks in them. She pulled the fork out of the Coffee Heath Bar Crunch and licked it. Then she licked the other two and put them all in the sink.

Marina put the lids back on two of the pints and stuck them in the freezer. But the vanilla? That she poured into a mug, which she took back into the living room.

She stared at Chloe glumly. “Do you know how to have a garage sale?”

5

TWO DAYS LATER, Ben pulled his Chevy work truck into Marina’s circular driveway on Key Biscayne and stared. A massive yellow moving van blocked his way, and it did not appear that his darling had simply ordered five suites of new furniture. No, small herds of men were removing her things from her two-story Mediterranean and a four-by-six sign announced that the house was for rent. What the hell?

Ben drove the Chevy between two royal palms and onto a stretch of lawn, then put it in Park. He swung out and strode around the van, up the wide, shallow entrance stairs and through the door. “Marina?” he called.

She popped her gorgeous head out of the kitchen. “Ben? What are you doing here?”

She was clad in color-coordinated baby-blue and brown aerobics-wear, which did nothing to obscure her perfectly proportioned body. Her chestnut hair was held back with a brown tie and a baby-blue sweatband completed the outfit. Christ—the woman even wore couture to the gym.

His lips might have twitched—if he hadn’t been instantly fixated on the curve of her bottom and the complete lack of a panty-line anywhere on it. Dios mío. And she was prancing around like this in front of a platoon of moving guys?

He completely forgot that he was here to apologize to her. “Marina, what is the meaning of this?” He gestured toward the white leather couch disappearing out the door, the stacks of cardboard boxes in the dining room and the plastic sheeting protecting the floors from the men’s boots.

Her expression changed. She’d smiled involuntarily at first sight of him, but now she elevated her little gringa nose and leveled a glare at him. “I’m moving to a condo.”

He gaped at her. “A condo? You couldn’t even fit the contents of your closet into a condo, mi vida.”

“That was yesterday. Today is different.”

It is? “Marina, look around you. You have far too much. Rugs, art, furniture—where are you going to put everything?”

“In storage,” she said airily. “And some of it I’m giving away.”

“But why?”

She tilted her head, folded her tanned, sculpted arms and took a deep breath. “Because Chloe says that all of this makes you feel like you have a small penis.”

Ben stared at her. His jaw worked, but no sound emerged.

“So I’m getting rid of it, and I’m going to divert my private income to the foundation and be poor.”

He finally managed a choking noise.

“Yes, really!” She produced a brave smile, but then her nose wrinkled. “I’m going to try to buy my shoes at Payless from now on. I might not be able to do it, though, in which case I’ll have to wear last year’s Louboutins and Choos. Oh, and classic Chanels—they never go out of style.”

She blinked rapidly. “I’ll be just fine. And I’ve canceled my trips to Milan and Paris for fashion week, though, if you don’t mind, I’ll still go to New York, since I can get a coach fare for under two-hundred dollars.”

Ben struggled mightily, but he dissolved into laughter. The idea of Marina abandoning her Learjet to fly coach with cocktail peanuts was too much. Besides, she’d spend more than the coach fare on dinner in the city with a friend.

“What’s so damn funny?” She marched over, the picture of outrage, and poked him in the chest.

Ben really wasn’t amused by the whole situation—and not at all by the small penis comment—but he couldn’t help himself. He laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks, because she was so ridiculous and so adorable and he loved her for it. Too bad he couldn’t have her, not even if she lived in a hut and developed an affinity for Spam.

“Do I entertain you, Delgado?” she asked in sarcastic tones.

He nodded weakly and burst out laughing again.

She put her hands on her hips. “I hate you! Do you even know how much I hate you? I am doing this for us—and all you can do is laugh at me? Get out of my house and take your small penis with you!”

She shrieked the last sentence, damn it. Snorts and guffaws came from outside, not to mention from various corners of the house. A sense of déjà vu swept over him. Hadn’t they just been through a similar scene at the construction site?

“Out!” she repeated, all hot and bothered and sexy. She stamped her foot.

“You don’t mean that, mi amor.” He eyed her like a cat would eye a fresh, teriyaki-glazed mouse.

“I do mean it, you rotten excuse for a man! Get out.” Her whole body quivered with indignation and rage.

Ben quirked his mouth and took a couple of leisurely steps toward her. Then he peeled off his shirt and dropped it onto the floor.

“No,” she said, her eyes blazing.

He simply smiled. He took another step toward her and said, “Come here, mi corazón. Come to papa.”

“Get away from me. Are you out of your mind?” But she glanced at his chest, touched the tip of her tongue to her lips and swallowed convulsively. He knew he had her. He grinned.

“Please excuse us,” he said to a burly woman who had been packing glassware but now simply stood there, slack-jawed, looking as if she’d like to lick him. Her gaze moved speculatively to his crotch.

Ben raised an eyebrow at her, snaked an arm around Marina’s waist and pulled her to him.

“No. Not even,” she said. “Don’t you dare ki—”

Ben settled his mouth over hers and devoured the rest of her words. He felt her resistance waver, then crumble as she responded to him. “Mmm,” he said against her lips, pulling her hair out of its ponytail and tangling his fingers in it. “I think you and me and my small penis should go upstairs for a while, mi amor. What do you say?”

An unintelligible sound emerged from her throat, a sound that he took to mean agreement. Ben threw Marina over his shoulder, then headed for the staircase.

“Ay, caramba!” uttered the burly woman.

He turned and winked at her.

MARINA’S NORMALLY NEAT bedroom was a mess, full of boxes and plastic sheeting. The closet doors stood open and Ben was amazed to see that eighty-five percent of her clothes were missing, even if her shoes and bags were still abundant.

She’d given her clothes away for him? In spite of the silliness of it all, his heart turned over. She was trying, in her unique way, to let him know that he wasn’t just a plaything to her. That she would make an effort to live on his terms.

He deposited her onto the unmade bed, disturbing Gnarly, who had crawled under the covers to escape the chaos of the movers.

Gnarly evaluated the prospects for petting and decided that they were not good, based on the overabundance of pheromones in the air. He shot them a disgusted glance and headed for the closet.

Ben peeled off Marina’s aerobics outfit piece by piece, kissing every inch of skin he bared and loving the way her hair spread across the pillow. Her quick intakes of breath, her soft moans, the way she involuntarily arched her back—everything about her turned him on.

And when finally they were both completely naked, her heels pressed into his back, he reveled in the way she accepted him into her body, her gasp as he slid all the way home.

He withdrew and drove in hard, making her squeak. He changed their angle so that he rubbed against the spot that would make her the hottest, make her beg for release. He pressed her knees farther apart and filled her, possessed her completely.

She closed her eyes, her breathing coming in shallow gasps.

Ben bent his head and captured a nipple between his teeth. He tugged lightly, then swirled his tongue over the tip while she moaned. “Now, about my small penis. You were saying?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” was all Marina could manage.

“I think you have an excellent point there,” Ben told her, tonguing the other nipple.

“Oh, yes!”

“So, mi vida, you were in actuality trying to tell me that I’m hung like an…elephant. Right?”

“Mmmmpphf. Yes—oh, yes! Oh, Ben…”

His own breath began to come in pants. He ground against her.

She started to tremble all over and he thrust deeper, slower, the way he knew she liked it. Her body tensed around him and, with a small cry, she climaxed while he took pleasure in her pleasure before seeking his own happy ending.

Ben stayed embedded in her afterward, resting on his elbows and between her soft, warm thighs. Her beautiful face was flushed and her eyes had gone dreamy. At times like this, it was easy to forget that she wore money like a heavy perfume. Right now, she was just a woman—and he was just a man—and they were in love.

He stirred inside her; she clenched around him in an intimate embrace. And to his surprise, he hardened again. He couldn’t ever seem to get enough of her; make her quite enough his.

Was her friend, Chloe, right? Did the luxury surrounding Marina make him feel as if he had a small penis? Because he, the man in her life, hadn’t provided her with that luxury?

Ben almost snorted. Ridiculous. Chloe and her poppsychology.

Marina moved under him and, as he started making slow love to her all over again, a crash came from downstairs. She winced, and he rolled off of her. “Marina, really—what is the meaning of all this?”

She sighed. “I want to show you that I can live a different life. That I can exist within a budget like a normal person. That you don’t have to be intimidated—”

His spine stiffened and he held up a hand. “Who said I’m intimidated? This is crazy. I don’t want you to prove anything to me! I don’t want to—I don’t want to bring you down, damn it.” He got out of her bed and pulled on his jeans.

“Then what do you want, Ben?”

The question made him unexpectedly furious. “I don’t know!” he shouted at her, feeling like a jerk.

“So why, in God’s name, did you come over here?” Her face had gone white, taut and angry. “Just to torture me?”

He sighed. “I came to apologize. I shouldn’t have broken up with you in a letter. I’m sorry.” There—he’d said it. Now, why didn’t he feel better?

The words hung in the air between them, not solving a damn thing.

At last, she said in brittle tones, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stared at each other.

Ben hated the blank, frustrated expression on her face; hated even more that he was the cause of it. It made him crazy, but he didn’t know what to do. “What the hell do you want from me?” he yelled—which only cemented her expression. He saw her shut down emotionally behind it, saw her hurt.

She sat naked with her knees drawn up to her chest, her hands clasped over them. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders. “Just your love, Ben,” she said simply. “Just your love.” She looked away from him, her expression miserable and lost.

He swore. He threw his hands into the air. Then he grabbed his shoes and walked out.

I am shit.

She was making a huge sacrifice—giving up her income, home and lifestyle. She was doing it for him. Why was he so angry instead of being grateful and touched? He didn’t want her to have to lower herself to his level, damn it.

He drove home barefoot and shirtless, leaving the shifty, avidly curious glances of the moving men behind him. Yeah, he was total shit. But he couldn’t seem to change that. Or could he?

6

“THE PROBLEM,” wailed Marina to Chloe by phone, “is not a small penis thing!”

“Yes, it is,” insisted Chloe.

“No, I’m telling you. Now he’s mad because I’m moving to a condo for him and he doesn’t want to bring me down. Can you believe this? I can’t win! What the hell does he want?”

“He wants to be top banana. The big, swinging dick in the relationship.”

“Chloe, can we please move away from the phallic imagery? I think you’re a little fixated.”

“Nope. Because what we have here is truly a case of encephallus, my highly scientific term for screwed-in-the-head. Didn’t you say that when he was just a kid, Ben’s mother left his father for a richer man?”

“Yes. But—”

“So he probably has an unacknowledged fear that the same thing will happen to him. Especially since he’s just lost his whole business. He’s subliminally convinced that now you don’t respect him anymore and he has to leave you before you leave him.”

“But that’s just stupid! I’m not going to leave him. I love him—God knows why.”

“He’s in the process right now of forcing you to leave him because he’s left you so that you can’t leave him first.”

“What? I’m so confused! That doesn’t make any sense at all, Chloe!”

Her friend said cryptically, “No, but that’s penis logic for you.”

They weren’t getting anywhere with this. “I think I need a nose job,” Marina told her. “Maybe he’ll come back if my nostrils are exactly the same diameter. I’ve noticed that the left one is slightly larger. By at least half a millimeter.”

“Marina, stay away from the mirror. You do not need a nose job, you need a lobotomy! If you schedule any more unnecessary cosmetic procedures, I will never speak to you again.”

“Fine,” Marina snapped. “Because I don’t understand your strange and tortured theories. anyway.”

“They may be strange and tortured, but they’re true, babes. So let go of your nose and step away from the mirror. Go eat something fattening and call me when you’ve developed an actual butt instead of just skin stretched around your hip sockets.”

There is nothing like a best friend to piss you off! Marina hung up scowling and remembered that once the bank transfers were done today she’d no longer have the money available to have a nose job, anyway. It would all belong to the foundation—except for one backup fund that was for emergencies only. Which reminded her…

An hour later she was pulling up to the Reston Foundation administrative offices. She got out of the bottle-green mini Cooper she’d traded down to from the Porsche. It was adorable and she had no regrets at all—see, being poor could be great fun!

“I need to see Liz Olmos, please,” she said to Lisa Ann, the foundation’s receptionist. “Right away. In my office.”

She sat behind her desk and slipped off her shoes to run her feet over the mink footrest. Liz came in, looking a bit nervous. “Shut the door, please,” Marina instructed her.

Liz gulped and shut it.

“How are the photo sessions going? The Frameworks for the Future calendar shoots?”

“Great!” Liz said. “Sam Delaney’s doing a fabulous job. I saw some of the contact sheets yesterday, and this thing is going to be a hit. The women will love it.”

“You called Ben to remind him of his appointment?”

Liz nodded. “He’ll be there.” She carefully masked her curiosity as to why Marina hadn’t called him herself. Their relationship was no secret.

“Sit down, Liz.”

“O-okay.”

“How are Shelby and Jack?”

Liz’s face lit up. “They’re doing beautifully. Shelby’s learning long division in school and Jack is playing peewee football….”

Marina nodded and folded her hands in her lap. “I’m glad.” Then she gazed into Liz’s eyes, not surprised when her employee fidgeted and looked away. “Honey, is there something you need to tell me?”

Liz’s face drained of all color. “Oh, God,” she whispered.

Marina said nothing; just waited.

“It was only going to be for a month, I swear. I couldn’t raise all of the tuition money for their school and…” Her voice broke. “Oh, God, Marina—I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Look, my CDs come due next Wednesday and I was going to take the interest and pay back the foundation. Please believe me, I only borrowed the money.” Tears began to roll down Liz’s clearly terrified face.

Marina closed her eyes. Her instincts had been correct.

“I swear to you, that I didn’t mean to steal it outright.”

“Nobody ever does. It’s always just a loan at first.”

“No, Marina—you don’t understand—I’m not like that! I just… with the mortgage and the car payment and insurance and groceries—And Wayne hasn’t sent the child-support checks for three months, now. I’m going to have to take him to court… The tuition bill came and I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Marina looked at her earnest, horrified face. Liz certainly didn’t get three-hundred-dollar-a-month highlights and she looked as if she’d never in her life had a facial. She’d seen her touching up her own nail polish. Her clothes were barely ser viceable. All of her paychecks went to the support of her children, and she sent them to private school because they each had learning disabilities.

“I’m sure that you want me to leave right away.” Liz rose to her feet, trembling and looking devastated. “Are you—are you going to call the police?”

Marina slowly shook her head. How could she do that to Shelby and Jack? The father was a drunk and there was only one set of ailing grandparents who weren’t in any condition to look after them.

“Sit down, Liz, and let’s talk.”

Bewildered, the woman sat again.

“I’m not going to pretend that I’m happy, but I do understand. From now on, I want you to submit the kids’ tuition bills to the foundation, okay?”

“But—but—”

“We’ll find a scholarship that applies. You do the paperwork.”

Liz put her face into her hands and began to sob, her shoulders hunched and shaking. “Why are you b-being so nice to me? After what I did?”

Marina bit her lip, found a box of tissues in her desk drawer and pushed it toward Liz. “Because, first of all, you did it for your kids and not for yourself. Second, because I’m removing your access to the foundation’s accounts, so you won’t be tempted in the future. And third, I’m taking a gamble on your character, Liz. My gut tells me that you are one of the very few people who deserve a second chance.”

Her employee raised a blotchy, red face. “I promise you that you will not regret this. And I promise that I’ll replace every penny with interest. Today if you want—I’ll just go cash out my CDs early and pay the penalty.”

Marina looked into her eyes and believed her. She shook her head. “NextWednesday will be fine. But can I ask you a question?”

Liz nodded.

“Why didn’t you just come to me for a loan?”

“I—couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Too much pride, I guess.” She laughed a little raggedly.

Pride. There it was again—it wasn’t just a male thing. Poor Liz Olmos certainly didn’t have a penis. She hardly had a spine.

“So somehow it’s better to steal than lose face?” Marina asked her gently.

Liz winced.

“You don’t have to answer that.” Marina thought about it. What her employee had done was wrong, but she’d maintained her autonomy—which, she supposed, was exactly what Ben was trying to do. But he didn’t have needy children to challenge his stern moral code.

Marina knew, without question, that if she herself had a child who was starving, she wouldn’t hesitate to steal from a store to feed them. She knew that, if she had to protect that child, she wouldn’t hesitate to shoot someone who threatened him.

No, Ben didn’t have kids—yet. But maybe he was just trying to protect the little boy he’d once been. The ten-year-old who saw his mother trade out his father for money, leaving him a broken man.

Was Ben really one-hundred-percent motivated by pride?

Marina gazed at the woman seated across from her, and knew that Liz hadn’t been. So it was a good bet that Ben’s issues added up to more than just tripping over his penis, as Chloe’d thought. Oh, pride was part of the problem, but it sure wasn’t all of it.

For the first time, Marina realized that Ben might simply be afraid of being hurt. Afraid of being used by a rich, carefree, careless woman. Of being traded out for a better, more financially equipped model who could keep up with her in terms of expensive hobbies and accoutrements.

And she wondered whether part of his discomfort with her money and her lifestyle was that, in some weird way, he didn’t feel he was worthy of it all….

Marina made sure that Liz had time to collect herself before she had to face the other employees at the foundation. She ac cepted her apology. She fielded a few phone calls and signed off on some papers. Then she rubbed her feet up and down on the mink footrest and tapped her long French-manicured fingernails on the surface of her desk. It was long past time to take serious charge of things. In short, in pursuit of her happiness and Ben’s, she was about to get Machiavellian.

7

AS BEN POSED IN a tool belt for the photographer, Samantha Delaney, he felt like a piece of meat. He really didn’t want to do this, but he wouldn’t break his promise to Marina.

“Stretch out, like that—good. Raise your arms, clasp them behind your head and give me that sleepy, let-me-light-your-fire smile again. Great!”

She was a pixie of a girl who looked barely able to carry some of that heavy photography equipment. But she seemed competent and good at her job; not the least bit embarrassed by his seminudity.

The floorboards of her upstairs studio creaked under his shifting weight as she had him get to his feet again and turn his back on her.

“Yeah—good butt shot. Cock your hips and hook your thumbs in the tool belt. Okay, now twist and look back over your shoulder. Perfect! Whew. That’s going to be smokin’. You could be the next Diet Coke guy, Ben. No lie!”

Sam set down her camera and went to adjust the light. “I’m going to experiment with a more film-noir look in the next few shots. Will you step into the powder room, there, and work some baby oil into your skin?”

Oh, Christ. Now she wanted him greased up so the photos would be even more beef-cakey. Ben felt utterly foolish, and started to remove the tool belt.

“No, no. Leave that on. And when you’re done with the oil, put on these work gloves and tuck that hammer into your waistband.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Now, what kind of message could you possibly be telegraphing with this little vignette?”

“Why, that you’ll be happy to nail the viewer, of course.” Sam grinned unrepentantly. “We’re marketing this calendar to women, bud. And the more suggestive it is, the faster it’s gonna sell.” She tossed the work gloves at him.

Ben caught them and sighed.

“Oil up,” Samantha ordered. “We’re running short on time. I’ve got a guy coming right after you.”

So he did. Then he flexed and sucked in and mugged for the camera, gradually losing his self-consciousness and having fun. His grin got ever more devilish.

“Fabulous!” exclaimed Sam. After several more shots, she tossed a construction hat at him. “Okay, now we’re ready to get hard core.”

“Hard core?” Ben repeated, alarmed.

“Yup. Strip down in the powder room and come out holding that strategically.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard Ms. Delaney, darling.” Marina’s voice came from the doorway, richly amused. “Go get naked and hold that hard hat over your small penis.”

He swung around and glared at her. “What are you doing here?”

“Supervising.” Marina eyed him coolly. “It is my charity’s fund-raiser, after all.”

Ben fought the urge to inform Sam that he did not have a small penis; that it was quite hefty, indeed. But he’d come off sounding too much like Hank Azaria in America’s Sweethearts. So, instead, he mocked Marina.

“Oh? Have you felt the need to supervise all twelve shoots of naked men? And have you been a hands-on type of manager?”

Sam bit her lip and fiddled with her camera. “Hi, Ms. Reston. Nice to see you.”

“Hello, Sam. Has Delgado been giving you any trouble?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good. He’s signed all the release forms?”

Sam nodded.

“Well, then, what’s the holdup, Benny? De-pants already.”

Ben shot her a gaze full of promised retribution and disappeared into the bathroom again, where he dropped his pants and clapped the hard hat over his goodies. Then he strode out with a gleam in his eye. “So, ladies. How would you like me?”

“Why, sunny-side up, darling,” Marina retorted, settling herself into a chair and crossing her slim, bare legs.

Sam’s lip quivered but she held on to her professionalism. “How about if you recline against the far wall. Rest your weight on your elbow. Good! Hold that expression.”

“What expression?” Ben asked.

“The one that crosses your face when you look at Ms. Reston. As if you’d like to—”

“Beat her?” Ben inquired.

Sam’s face flushed red. “Eat her for lunch.”

“Oh, that expression,” said Ben, and bared his teeth in a wolfish grin.

“Holy Mother of God,” said Sam. She clicked away. “Um, I don’t want to get, um, out of line here. But go ahead and think about doing…whatever it is you do…to Ms. Reston when you’re spending time together. I’d like those expressions, too.”

“Oh, I’d be delighted.” Ben turned his dark eyes on Marina and let them drop to a sleepy half-mast, while he bit his lower lip and began to picture all kinds of X-rated things.

“Dear Lord!” Sam uttered, and Marina squirmed visibly in her chair, uncrossing and recrossing her legs.

They continued in this vein for a good ten minutes.

Finally, Ben laughed softly. “More?”

“I’m not sure I can take any more,” Sam said, fanning herself with an envelope she’d snatched off a side table. “Besides—I’ve got shots here that will peel the wallpaper in the average housewife’s kitchen. I don’t think we can improve on them. Thank you.”

“Just doing my job, señorita.” Ben headed for the powder room, very conscious that the two women’s eyes were glued to his naked backside. Just for fun, he turned his head and caught them in the act.

Sam immediately pretended to look at her camera. Marina switched her attention to her Piaget watch.

Ben smirked, and she flushed angrily. He got dressed wondering how the atmosphere between them always became sexually charged, whether they were speaking or not. By all rights, they should be icily cold to each other after the way they’d parted yesterday.

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