Wicked, wicked thoughts raced through his mind.

Bill stared at Ellie, trying not to think how drop-dead sexy that fishnet cover thing was over her red bikini. Very teasing. Very exciting. She was all grown-up and hot and sexy in that get-up. Enough to make a man howl at the moon.

“What’re you thinking about?” she asked.

With another woman, that question would have stopped him cold. But with Ellie…well, it was different. He was tempted to detail his lusty thoughts to see if she was as keen to get busy as he was.

“Something about you, Ellie,” he said instead.

The heat from the sun poured down on them. But it had nothing on the sizzle between them. Her expression encouraged him, told him to go for it, to seduce her into indulging in the kind of no-regrets wickedness dominating his mind.

With that kind of invitation, who was he to refuse?

COLLEEN COLLINS

Deep into the writing, while Colleen Collins was weaving threads of glam-rock and glam-goth into the story, she heard in an old Lou Reed song the name of someone she once knew – Jackie in “Walk on the Wild Side.” Jackie Curtis had been her neighbour back in Hollywood, and they used to talk about life and writing and what they wanted to be someday. He was so low-key and easygoing and funny, she had no idea he’d been one of Andy Warhol’s superstars until someone told her. And she didn’t know he was in “Walk on the Wild Side” until she wrote this book. A tip of the hat to you, Jackie, all these years later.

Dear Reader,

I had a challenge with this book – to develop a glam-goth character who’s made over into a Malibu beach babe. The latter I understood, having grown up in sunny Southern California and spent time frolicking on its beaches. It was a summer ritual during high school for a bunch of us to rent beach houses (with a few brave-hearted teachers as chaperones) and “hang” in bikinis for a week of flirting, swimming and catching some rays.

But glam-goth? I was clueless. I did research on YouTube watching Marilyn Manson and Siouxsie Sioux videos, watched an entire series on Lou Reed, read up on glam-goth makeup and clothes, but it all felt too remote, too distant. Then I found GiGi-D L’Amour, a glam-goth diva extraordinaire, artist and disc jockey who took me under her gothic wing and patiently answered my many questions. Thank you, GiGi!

Also, big thank-yous to two of my favourite authors and good friends, Dawn Atkins and Cindi Myers. Dawn and Cindi are not only talented, but fun to work with! A big thank-you to my editor, Wanda Ottewell, whose guidance and good humour always keep me on track, and to Shaun Kaufman, who diligently read all six story drafts – including the wrong one I gave him accidentally.

So get ready to read about a glam-goth chick in a beach-babe world as she not only experiences a few shock waves, but starts a few of her own…

Happy reading!

Colleen Collins

PS Check out my upcoming books at www. colleencollins.net.

SHOCK WAVES

BY

COLLEEN COLLINS

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To GiGi-D L’Amour, who graciously shared her glam-goth world so I could better develop Shock Waves’ heroine, Ellie. Any inaccuracies are the author’s, not GiGi’s.

1

COME JOIN the hot, hot, hot Sin on the Beach festival! That’s right, beach babes and beach dudes, we’re talking hot games, hot competitions, hot bodies to help us kick off the second-season launch of the hottest TV show this season!

Twenty-nine-year-old Ellie Rockwell—glam goth girl, coffee shop owner and serious Lou Reed fan—read the announcement on the kiosk again, certain she was suffering from heatstroke. Or having a heart attack. Or both. Hardly what a woman on her first vacation in five years should be having.

“Sin on the Beach,” she murmured, glancing over at the people setting up booths and tents along this stretch of Malibu Beach. It was one thing to read about this festival at her coffee shop, Dark Gothic Roast, located twenty miles inland in fast-paced, hyperstressed Los Angeles, quite another to be standing on the very sand where the TV show was filmed.

Everybody and anybody knew better than to call Ellie on Thursday nights between 9:00 and 10:00 p.m. when Sin on the Beach aired. She got teased a lot for loving this show, as though goths were narrow-minded enough not to like anything that wasn’t black and morbid and reeking of Edgar Allan Poe. Okay, she could do without all the sunshine and tanned bodies on the show, but she dug the buffed actors in Speedos. Especially when they starred in the occasional mystery story line full of shadows and danger. Plus, the night scenes were to die for—moonlight gilding the water, the ocean spilling its secrets and the occasional body onto the shore, the rhythmic tumble of distant, dark waves.

She continued reading. The festival promised games such as Truth or Bare and Hot Shot Photo Scavenger Hunt, surfing competitions, limbo contests, something called Good Vibrations. Even nearby bars were getting into the festival mood by holding karaoke sin-alongs, and…

Her heart stilled.

What was this?

She leaned forward, clutching her black silk top while reading the fine print at the bottom of the poster.

Hey, you! Want to be an extra on Sin on the Beach and earn beaucoup festival points doing so? Then come to the open audition the first morning of the festival! If you’re 18-30, act wicked, dress cool and have a rockin’bod, meet here on Tuesday, August 15, 7:00 a.m. sharp. Be hot, be sinful, be ready!

For a wild, giddy moment, Ellie imagined herself as an extra on Sin on the Beach, looking killer in a black bikini, cavorting in the waves, maybe being the one who found the dead body in a mystery plot and getting to rip loose a bloodcurdling scream. How groovy would that be?

She scanned the ad again. Wicked, dress cool and have a rockin’ bod…

Her short black hair was wickedly spiked, but she seriously doubted that’s the kind of wicked they had in mind. Dress cool? Unless they were into the Mistress of the Dark look, she doubted they’d use that word for her wardrobe, most of it custom-designed by yours truly. Although, lifting everything from cappuccino machines to bags of coffee beans kept her in shape, so humility aside, she could probably pull off the rockin’ body.

Wicked. Cool. Rockin’.

She blew out a sigh.

One out of three wouldn’t cut it.

Just as well. She expected to hear any day that her business loan had been approved, which meant starting next week she’d begin the expansion of Dark Gothic Roast into the remodeled former warehouse in East L.A. The space was so large, she’d decided to try selling her clothes designs in one of the commercial spaces while overseeing the rental of the others. The enormity of her plans excited and scared the crap out of her. Rather than fret and worry until she got the news, she’d opted to adopt the pragmatic “what happens, happens” attitude.

Until then, she’d chill, do her caretaking thing. Which meant she needed to ensure her brother, Matt, crossed paths as often as possible with her friend Candy and encourage her other friend Sara to occasionally pry herself off her laptop.

Speaking of which, time to call the mother ship and see how things were going. She flipped open her cell phone and punched in the speed-dial for Sara.

“Hello?”

“It’s El. Expecting it was your uncle calling again, hmm? Everything going okay?” She nudged her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “Hey, guess who’s looking for hot-bodied extras?”

“Johnny Depp?”

“I wish. Seriously, Sin on the Beach.”

“Cool!”

“Yeah, remember that festival we read about? Well, Sin is holding an open audition for extras. Better yet, everybody who gets hired also wins a scad of festival points.”

“Ellie Rockwell, I see your name in lights.”

“I’m not wicked and cool enough,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. Hey, I’ll bring one of these flyers back to the house. There are all kind of games and competitions.” And she knew just the people to sign up, too—Matt and Candy.

“Gotta go,” Sara suddenly said. “Someone’s waiting.”

“Tell your Uncle Spence it’s your first day on vacation! Girlfriend, you deserve a day off.”

“Yeah, like you ever close Dark Gothic Roast. Anyway, it’s not Uncle Spence.”

“Who is it?”

Pause. “Ellie, your goal is to matchmake Candy, not me.”

A pause could only mean one thing….

“Sara Montgomery, you wanton mortgage broker you. You landed a guy! While sitting alone at the beach house! You rule.”

Sara laughed and signed off.

Ellie shook her head. And here she’d been pondering how to help Sara relax, have some fun. Appeared Sara was a lot more resourceful than Ellie had given her credit for.

She started to slip her cell into her shorts’ pocket, hesitated, then punched in the speed-dial for Dark Gothic Roast. Overhead, seagulls squawked and circled as a little boy tossed pieces of bread from a bag. Nearby, construction workers hammered, drilled, called out to each other as they worked on the festival site.

“Dark Gothic Roast,” answered a female voice.

“Hey!” yelled a male voice. “That your Benz?”

Ellie looked around. “Tish, El. How’s it going?”

A groan. “Kiefer called in sick and I ended up handling the morning rush by myself.”

“Hey,” boomed the male voice again. “I’m talking to you. Miss Spiky Black Hair.”

As if that left any doubt who he meant. As Tish droned on about the espresso machine making a “funny sound,” Ellie scanned the area. None of the construction workers seemed interested in her. Nor did the nearby jocks tossing a Frisbee.

Wait.

There.

The guy in the Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a buffed, brown and extremely hairy chest, was staring directly at her.

“It sounds kind of like keee-keee klunk,” continued Tish, “and it only does it if I’m steaming milk longer than twenty seconds….”

Ellie stared at the man. Something about him looked familiar.

“I suppose I could stop steaming sooner,” said Tish, “but then there’d be no froth and you know how some customers would get if their lattes were flat….”

The man smiled, and Ellie’s heart ratcheted in her chest.

Only one man in the world had a smile like that.

Impossible…and yet…it was him.

Bill Romero.

He was older—seventeen years to be exact—bigger and hotter than the boy she remembered. The rough-around-the-edges guy had morphed into a body like The Rock, with the too-cool aura of a Lenny Kravitz. He leaned against a palm tree, the breezes billowing open his shirt whose bright yellow flowers looked like pats of melting butter on his choca-mocha-latte skin.

“El, what should I do about the espresso machine?”

Ellie cleared her suddenly parched throat. “Turn up the steam,” she rasped before terminating the call.

“That your Benz?” he called out again.

Ah, the voice. It hadn’t really changed. That deep, rumbling tone and clipped rhythm, so familiar it made her insides squeeze. How many nights had she lain in her childhood bed, her window open on the off chance she’d overhear Bill talking with a pal or family member. The summer she turned twelve, when he was eighteen, she must have written more journals than Anais Nin. Page after page filled with fantasies of her first kiss—her first everything—with him.

“Benz,” he repeated, mistaking her silence for not hearing him clearly. “Over there!” He pointed.

Ellie stared at his raised arm. So big, so brown, two-thirds of it covered with a massive tattoo. She couldn’t really see the details this far away, but could tell it was colorful, bold and elaborate.

Unlike her tattoos, which were hidden, secretive.

Sea breezes brushed and stroked her, making her realize all the areas of her skin that were bare. In the distance, she heard waves crashing, the fading away of a girl’s laughter.

Finally remembering to breathe, Ellie looked to where he was pointing. At the far end of the patch of tarmac sat a gleaming silver Mercedes. She had the momentary urge to laugh—did she really look like the kind of woman who drove a Benz? She looked back at him, wondering if, behind those dark shades, his eyes still looked like melted pools of chocolate.

“No,” she called out, her voice breathy, unrecognizable. “Not mine.”

He pushed himself off the palm tree—did his biceps ripple when he moved?—and stared at her. The sun glinted off an earring. That was new, too. And for a crazy moment, she wondered if he remembered her. No, no way. Back then, she’d been freckled and mousy-haired. Hardly the goth chick he was talking to right now.

Besides, they’d only really spoken once, that memorable summer night she’d worked up the nerve to ask if what she’d heard was true, was he was really moving far away? Her girl’s heart had shattered into a million pieces when he’d said yes, he was moving to New York to start film school.

“Just my luck,” he murmured, his voice rippling through the air like a heat wave. “Need it moved, hoped it might be yours.”

She wiped a trickle of sweat off her brow, wishing she could say something, anything, to prolong this encounter. She was a whiz at chatting, did it all the time with her customers. Asked them about their jobs, their kids. Helped them figure out their love problems. But she couldn’t summon one reasonably intelligent thing to ask Bill. Yeah, good ol’ helpful Ellie was resourceful when it came to others’ needs, but a tongue-tied, sweat-laden mass of messed-up hormones when it came to her own.

She took a few halting steps across the sand, imagining how she’d introduce herself. “Hey, remember me? That scrawny kid next door who wore pigtails?” No, skip the scrawny part. “The girl next door who…” loved, adored, idolized you. No, forget that. Although Bill had been a few years older than Matt, he’d probably remember her brother. Yeah, she’d bring up Matt. “Hey, remember me? Matt Rockwell’s kid sister?”

She stopped.

Too late.

Bill was talking to several women, one dressed in Benz-worthy clothes, undoubtedly wicked and cool. And flirting unabashedly with Bill. Jeez, her effusive giggle could be heard over the construction workers’ incessant hammering, even over a low-flying airplane towing a bright blue banner with the words Wolfman Pizza 1-800-555-9844 We’re Howling Good!

And I’ve howlingly lost my chance.

She stopped, stared down at her purple-painted toenails, white legs, black shorts, black silk top. Then back up at the giggling babe with the white short-shorts, long bronzed legs and skimpy pink halter top.

They obviously weren’t talking about the Benz or she’d be moving it.

I’m standing here, looking like a black dot in the middle of the sand. The anti-beach babe. The kind of woman he’d ask to move her car, but nothing more.

With a sinking feeling, Ellie turned and started heading back to the beach house. It was for the best. She needed to see how Candy and Matt were doing. Catch the story about Sara and this mystery male. Follow up with Tish, make sure the espresso machine wasn’t getting the better of her. What had she said it sounded like? Keee-keee klunk?

Funny, that’s exactly how Ellie felt at the moment. As though something inside her had jarred loose and was rattling around. And she knew what that something was. A piece of her past named Bill. And here she was, walking away for a second time from him, just as she had that long-ago summer night when she was twelve.

Seventeen years and hundreds of life changes later, walking away today felt every bit as hard.

THREE HOURS, two Bomb Pops and one Candy-Sara-Ellie girl-talk fest later, Ellie stood in the cosmetics aisle at Walgreens with Sara, perusing the hair color section.

“I can’t believe I agreed to be made over into a beach babe,” muttered Ellie, looking at the boxes of color with names like Bombshell Blond, Golden Sunset and Strawberry Vanilla.

Sara, switching their plastic shopping basket from one hand to the other, snorted a laugh. “Gotta look like one if you want to wow them at the audition tomorrow morning. Plus, if—no, when—you get hired, think of all those points Team Java Mammas will get toward the grand prize!”

Team Java Mammas. The team name she, Candy and Sara had given themselves in their quest to win the festival grand prize, a free beach bungalow rental every summer for the next ten years. “Just wish I could wow them with black spiky hair,” Ellie muttered.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” Sara scanned the boxes, all decorated with smiling models sporting luxurious, shiny hair in more shades than a color wheel.

For a surreal moment, everything looked too light, too blond, too perfect. Too anti-Ellie. What was she doing here? Not just here at the store, but here at the beach, too! She wasn’t some sixteen-year-old starring in Beach Blanket Babettes—she was a businesswoman turning thirty in a few months! She shouldn’t be here. She should be back at Dark Gothic Roast, getting ready for the big move.

“I don’t know, Sara—” she gestured toward the sea of models’ faces “—I’ll never look like them.”

“Hon, even they don’t look like that. They’ve been airbrushed and streamlined and photo-enhanced down to their very roots.”

It wasn’t the words as much as the lilt in her pal’s voice that shook Ellie out of her funk. She looked at Sara more closely, realizing her telltale lines of stress had all but disappeared. As corny as it sounded, she even had a twinkle in her eye.

And Ellie knew why. She’d just forgotten why’s name.

“What was that surfer hunk’s name?”

“Drew.” The way Sara said his name, it sounded like a piece of delectable candy. “And yours…”

Mine. Oh, man, that was so far from the truth.

“Bill.” Ellie heaved a small sigh. Crazy how just saying his name sent small shivers all over her. And to think she’d just told herself she wasn’t some goofy sixteen-year-old. Truth was, saying his name turned her insides all gooey, like some besotted, crushed-out teenager.

“How long were you two neighbors?”

“Years. I remember first seeing him when I was six, the year my dad left. Bill was twelve, and already a stud-in-the-making.”

“You had a crush on him at six?”

Ellie nodded slowly. “Crazy, huh? I still remember the first time I saw him. He was standing on his porch, staring out at nothing, lost in thought. I thought he looked like a fairy-tale prince. After that, my heart did a sonic boom every time I saw him, right up to the day he moved to New York to go to film school.”

“How old were you when he moved?”

“Twelve.”

“You must have been so sad.”

“Sad? That was the year the movie When Harry Met Sally came out. I saw it at least ten times. I’d sit in the back, drowning my sorrow in popcorn, fantasizing about Bill and how, despite our tumultuous parting, we were destined to be together.” She pointed at the box Sara was holding. “Honey blond, no way.”

“But, El—”

“Too Reese Witherspoon. I need a bad-girl blond color.”

“No, I meant…” Sara hesitated, then set the box back on the shelf. “I was still feeling sad about your childhood heartache.”

Ellie didn’t want to admit some of that sadness had come back today. She couldn’t blame Bill for not recognizing her, but something about his lack of attention had made her feel again like that brokenhearted twelve-year-old.

“So,” said Sara, “what’s a bad-girl blond? The color of Madonna’s hair?”

Ellie felt relieved to be back on topic. “She’s not so bad anymore, is she?”

“Cameron Diaz?”

“Maybe.”

“Jennifer Aniston?”

Elle gave her friend a look. “Girlfriend, you need to unchain yourself more often from that laptop because obviously you have no idea what bad is.”

They laughed.

“El,” Sara said, turning serious, “I know you’re not the type to easily talk about what’s on your heart, but I have to add one thing. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that you saw Bill today. I bet you’re going to run into him again.”

See Bill again? Ellie didn’t know if her heart, mind or soul could handle it. What had happened this morning was enough to haunt her for months as it was. But no way did she want Sara to know that. Ellie Rockwell was so much better than some ancient crushed-out angst.

She hoped.

“As much as I’ve always wanted to have a real supernatural experience,” she said in her best breezy voice, “I doubt you’ve suddenly turned clairvoyant.”

Before Sara could follow up with something else serious and heartfelt, Ellie pointed toward the end of the aisle. “Hey, down there are some awesome black hair colors.”

Sara made a stopping gesture. “You promised to go blond, and I’m holding you to it. This one—” she grabbed a hair color labeled Lightning Blond “—is perfect. After we wash out your black rinse, this color will give you that Gwen Stefani bad-girl blond you want.”

“Okay, we’re starting to talk bad.”

Grinning, Sara picked up a second container. “Then we’ll add some gold highlights, which will give you that sunny, sparkling beach babe look.”

Ellie looked over at a couple of sunny, sparkling beachettes. The type who’d snagged Bill’s attention today. Here she thought she’d so smoothly avoided further discussion of Bill, but she’d forgotten the nonstop banter in her own head.

One of the beachettes laughed, reminding her of the bimbo Bill had chortled with earlier today. What did those types have that Ellie didn’t? Hell, if she could make herself over into the Mistress of the Dark, she could certainly make herself into a Gidget type, too. Not the sunny, sparkling variety, but definitely a Gidget on the Edge.

“Bad-girl with gold streaks it is,” she said, turning back to Sara. “Sold.”

“That’s my girl! Hey, El, this is fun taking care of you for a change. Oh, look at these yummy pastel lipsticks…”

“Huhhhh.” Blond was one thing, but pastel makeup?

Sara tossed a peachy lipstick into the basket. “I told you I bought several new bikinis for the trip, right? We’re about the same size, so let’s have you try a few on when we get back.”

“What colors are they?” Not pastel, please God.

“Pink, tangerine…oh, and black.”

Ellie’s mood lifted. “Black. Cool.”

“Okay, next—spray-on tan.”

This time Ellie willingly followed her friend to the fake bake aisle, as Sara called it.

Sara held up something called TechnoTan. “What about—”

“Put it in, baby.”

Sara, looking surprised but pleased, added it to the basket. “I won’t spray over your tattoos, but use one of my makeup brushes to paint the skin around them.”

Ellie listened, sort of, but her attention had again been diverted by the beachettes who were giggling in front of the body cream section. It brought back how she’d felt earlier, Miss Black Spiked Hair Can You Move Your Benz, standing in the background, out of place and out of time, wearing her big, broken childhood heart on her sleeve. Okay, so she’d wanted to be better than ancient angst, but the truth was, she wasn’t.

Suddenly, it felt as though all the years of caring and yearning and dreaming about Bill had crowded against her heart, squeezing it, constricting the memories into a throbbing lump of ache. Today, her world had stopped when she’d recognized Bill, but his didn’t even pause. He wasn’t interested in me. And as much as she told herself it didn’t matter, she felt rejected. Unacceptable.

She picked up a box of something and pretended to read, as though focusing on random words might impose logic on her pain. On her heart. But the letters danced and swam, refusing to make sense.

Maybe that’s how she should view the past. Make it blurry, indistinguishable, unimportant. Do what she came to do this week—chill, play matchmaker, audition to be an extra and screw the rest.

“Hey!” enthused Sara, holding up a plastic case. “This will look fantastic with your turquoise eyes. Ghost Silver eye shadow!”

Ghost…exactly how she should view Bill. A ghost from her past, nothing more.

She took the container from Ellie and tossed it into the basket. “Sold.”

2

BILL, SITTING in the first row of the audience, shook his head at Mandy, the hyperefficient fortyish principal casting director sitting at the foot of the stage. She nodded, understanding his message that the girl who just auditioned was a no.

“You didn’t like her?” asked Jimmie, Bill’s best pal and Sin on the Beach’s key grip.

“Not hot enough,” Bill said, shifting. He tipped his coffee mug, which caused brown liquid to slosh down the front of his white polo shirt.

“Shit.”

He set the cup on the sand beneath their folding chairs and pulled the shirt away from his skin. “I’m used to easing into Monday mornings with 9:00 a.m. read-throughs, not getting up when the rooster crows to audition hundreds of extras for some publicity gig.” He flapped the shirt to cool the spilled liquid.

“I won’t ask if that was hot enough,” quipped Jimmie.

Bill shot him a look.

“Sorry. But speaking of things that could be hot…have you given any more thought to you and I starting our own indie company?”

Bill nodded. “Sure. Problem is, making big bucks with an independent film production company is a long shot.”

“Who’s talking big bucks?”

“Me. You know my take on the movie business. Dream big, make it big. No offense, but an indie company is too small for this boy.”

Jimmie shook his head. “You’re letting your hard-luck roots get the better of you, pal. Producing our own films gives us control, which is big in a better way. Did I tell you Edge of the Universe placed first in its category at the WorldFest competition?”

He and Jimmie had known each other from their first day at New York University film school, given each other a lot of support while they crawled up the dog-eat-dog success ladder of L.A. film and television work. Jimmie’s first love was screenwriting, but until he started making sales, he worked on film crews.

Bill balled his hand into a fist, knocked it against Jimmie’s fist. “Edge of the Universe will be your breakthrough sale, no doubt about it.”

Jimmie had spent the last few years writing this screenplay, about three friends from East L.A. whose lives take dramatically different paths. He’d loosely based the protagonist on Bill’s own coming of age story in East L.A.’ s gangland. Bill hadn’t minded sharing most aspects of what it’d been like growing up in the barrio but there was one thing he never shared with anyone, and never would.

“It could be our first script, Bill. With a hot screenwriter and a hot up-and-coming director…” He jabbed his thumb at himself, Bill. “My parents are willing to be our first investors, although we’d need to raise the rest. I think we can do it.”

Bill paused. “You’re my best friend, Jimmie, but I gotta say no. It took years to nail this first AD spot. Gordon’s still the director on this week’s shoot, but he’s stepping aside and letting me take the reins for a few days. If I pull it off, I’ll be bagging my first directing gig with Sin.”

First AD—Assistant Director—was the number two spot on the set, right below director. As such, Bill was basically the jack-of-all-trades on the set, but that wasn’t good enough. He wanted to call the shots, be number one. Being the oldest of five kids, as well the man of the house after his dad split, Bill had decided early on that the world belonged to those who stayed strong and focused.

And his focus was to make his mark as a film director.

Which meant he said no to anything that got in his way, even his best pal’s business idea.

“Look,” he said, lowering his voice, “if I hear of anyone wanting to start up an indie, I’ll put them in touch with you, okay?”

“Not that I don’t appreciate that, but my first choice will always be you.”

Bill groaned. “Is this the part where I say ‘We’ll always have Paris’?”

Jimmie laughed, gave his pal a friendly slap on the back. “I’ll stop laying on the guilt. Besides, you have better things to do. Do you know how many guys would kill to fill in for the director on a cattle call for babes in bikinis?”

Bill caught Mandy’s wave. Next audition was ready.

“Yeah, it’s a burden, but somebody’s gotta do it.”

He gave a go-ahead nod to Mandy, a small gesture toward a big career. People like Jim just didn’t get it.

IN THE BACKSTAGE TENT provided for those auditioning to be extras, Ellie checked herself out in a mirror, amazed yet again at her transformation from a goth chick to this bad-girl blonde in a good-time bikini. Most of it thanks to Sara, who’d woken Ellie up at the crack of dawn and helped wrangle her into beach babe shape.

Ellie looked around at the other extra wannabes hanging out in the small blue tent. They’d all shown up at 7:00 a.m. to sign up, and in the hour since, they’d spent their time primping, talking and drinking the free coffee from one of several urns. Free, but disgustingly bad-tasting coffee, although no one except Ellie seemed to notice.

Which was the only bad thing—besides her bad-girl blond hair—about this whole adventure. Now that she was here, she was psyched to audition. It felt silly but fun to try out for a walk-on part on Sin on the Beach. And although it felt a little odd, it was nice to do something for herself instead of everybody else.

“Ellie Rockwell?” asked a harried teenage boy wearing a Sin on the Beach festival T-shirt and khaki shorts. He looked around the tent while speaking in low tones into his headset.

“Yes?”

“You’re next. Follow me.” He hurried away, reporting his movements to whoever was on the other end of the headset. “She’s here. Yes. Ellie Rockwell. Maybe.”

Maybe? What did that mean?

He held open the flap to the tent for Ellie to follow. She grabbed her bag of makeup in one hand, her bag containing her killer stilettos in the other, and followed.

They sprinted across a patch of hot sand and into another tent, this one huge, white and air-conditioned. Ellie paused, relishing the blast of cool air. The area was buzzing with people, props, equipment. In the far corner, next to a table set with rolls, fruit and drinks, a man sporting a handlebar mustache, lime-green turban and a gaudy Hawaiian shirt was pouring himself a big glass of iced tea. He looked up at Ellie and winked.

Oh, hold me back.

“You’re up,” the boy said, motioning toward an opening in the tent. “Walk onto the stage, head to the microphone and answer their questions. Afterward, exit stage left.”

“Who’s they?”

“Assistant director, casting director, maybe one of the producers.”

Her stomach flip-flopped. These were the bigwigs, the muckety-mucks, the top dogs who ran her favorite show. Okay, sitting with all the extra wannabes, it had been easy to think this was fun and silly. But knowing who she’d be auditioning in front of, suddenly this felt freaking scary.

“Stage left?” she rasped, kicking off her sandals. She cleared her throat. “Where’s that?”

“The far side of the stage.”

She slipped on a stiletto. “Did you say there’s a microphone?”

But he was already engrossed in another conversation over his headset. Catching Ellie’s gaze, he impatiently pointed toward the stage and mouthed an emphatic “Go!” before zipping away.

She quickly stepped into the second stiletto, trying to ignore the little voice in her head telling her to run away, she’d only make a fool of herself, people might laugh, she could fall on her face….

Straightening, she sucked in a shaky breath. If I can’t tackle one silly audition, how do I expect to tackle a new business venture?

She walked onto the stage.

BILL WATCHED the next girl walk hesitantly out onto the stage. She walked stiff-kneed, staring wide-eyed at the audience that was mostly made up of friends of those auditioning, some crew, a few hungover partiers. When she reached the microphone, she stopped and smiled awkwardly.

She was pretty, in a Kirsten Dunst kind of way, with her short, fluffy blond hair, dimpled smile and pert nose. The kind of girl one saw a hundred times a day in L.A.

And yet…not.

Something about her was different, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Something provocative, simmering just below the surface…

“Look at those shoes, man,” muttered Jimmie, sitting taller in his seat.

Bill’s gaze dropped down the nicely filled black bikini, down long, coltish legs to a pair of black patent stilettos with silver chains. Whoa. That something different was hardly below the surface, it was just below the shapely calves.

“Tell us your name, where you’re from and something special about yourself,” prompted Peter, the casting assistant in charge of extras, into his hand-held mike. Nearby sat Mandy, talking on her cell phone while eating a doughnut.

The young woman leaned forward, at which point Bill noticed the edge of a tattoo peeking over the top of her bikini top. A spiderweb?

She spoke so closely to the mike, it sounded like a thunderous whisper. “Ellie Rockwell.”

“Step back and say your name again, please,” instructed Peter.

She did. Bill liked the cadence of her voice. Soft, rhythmic like the waves.

And familiar.

She shifted from one spiked heel to the other. “I’m an L.A. girl—grew up in East L.A., currently living and working in West L.A.”

A sense of déjà vu prickled his skin. He knew her. But from where? With the long hours he put in on the set these days, his only social outlet was Gold’s Gym, and he’d have recalled if their paths had crossed there. Maybe it was her voice, someone he’d conversed with in the course of his too-many business calls every day.

Wait a minute.

Rockwell?

East L.A.?

Hadn’t he had neighbors there, years ago, with that name? Right, now he remembered. Mrs. Rockwell, one of those fragile blondes who looked as though she’d crumble if you looked at her the wrong way, and her kids Mark—no, Matt—and a daughter. Yeah, had to be Ellie. He blew out a puff of air. That freckled, knobby-kneed girl had grown up to be this dom-shoed doll on the stage?

“Four stars,” murmured Jimmie.

But ever since Jimmie tied the knot last year, he’d been irritatingly intent on setting Bill up for wedded bliss, too. Every potential Mrs. Romero got a starrating from one—forget it—to four—go for it.

“You and your damn numbers,” Bill muttered, tapping the pencil against his clipboard. But four was dead-on as his gaze raked up past that cleavage-spilling black top to that heart-shaped face to those eyes….

He flashed on a memory from years ago. Ellie, auburn hair barely restrained in pigtails, those big questioning eyes. It had been long past midnight. He’d been sitting on the porch, contemplating his life changes to come, when suddenly he looked down and saw his young neighbor standing on the lawn in front of him. In a soft voice, she’d asked if what she’d heard was true—was he moving to New York?

She’d sounded so anxious, so sad, which had confused him. But with younger siblings, he knew how a kid’s unresolved worries could be triggered by a seemingly unrelated event. If he remembered correctly, Ellie’s dad had split around this time five or so years before. Another adult figure leaving probably reminded her of that all over again.

Bill had answered her yes, he was moving to New York to go to film school, and that little girls shouldn’t be out so late. He’d walked her back to her house where she’d lingered in the front doorway, those big eyes staring at him, before going inside.

Those same eyes stared at him now, reeling him back to the present, and he offered a small smile of recognition. She smiled back, and he swore something in her look shifted, darkened, sparked. For a long moment, they held each other’s gaze and suddenly all he was aware of was a churning tension between them, not unlike the distant crashing waves.

He’d at first observed a woman in a black bikini, but now all he saw were glistening limbs, full breasts, bare skin. Lust had fogged his brain and whatever memories he had of the girl evaporated, replaced by this hot woman.

Jimmie coughed. “Five.”

“Five what?”

“That eye-lock, as though you two are the only people in this place, just bumped her from four to five stars.”

“You’ve never given a five.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve never seen you go brain-dead so quickly, either.”

Bill broke the eye-lock and glanced at his buddy. “It’s an audition, Jimbo, nothing more.”

“Bill-o, sell that bridge somewhere else.”

Peter lit a cigarette, blowing out a puff of smoke as he said into his mike, “You have one minute to share something special about yourself.”

Ellie blinked, straightened, released a shaky breath. Over the speakers, the sound reverberated over the crowd like a throaty sigh, nearly bringing Bill to his knees.

She zeroed in on him again. Later, he pondered if he’d imagined the look she gave him, one filled with a yearning that bordered on defiance. But he didn’t imagine her next words.

“I want to share this with you.”

Slowly, she turned so her back was to the audience. God. Those heels worked magic on a great ass and a pair of killer legs.

“You’re gnawing on your pencil,” whispered Jimmie.

Bill released the eraser tip from his teeth. “Oh, shut up.”

Ellie slipped her thumbs underneath the waistband of her bikini bottoms and lowered them, slowly, an inch or so. Bill ground his teeth, his entire body on edge, as he read the black-scripted tattoo at the base of her spine.

“Queen of Evil?” he rasped.

“Yeah,” murmured Jimmie, “that’s what it says all right.”

Bill groaned.

Jimmie leaned closer. “So, is she a five?”

Bill returned his gaze to her, gave his head a slow shake. “She’s more than a number, Jimmie. I share a past with her.”

“ELLIE ROCKWELL.”

Standing at the food table in the backstage tent quaffing a blueberry muffin, she froze. Even with her back to him, she’d know that voice anywhere. Swallowing her bite, she set down the muffin and turned.

A shiver passed through her.

Bill was even hotter up close.

His skin, naturally mocha, was darker from the sun. His full, natural hair looked like a deliciously dark aura. Stubble coarsened his jaw, making her think he’d probably rolled out of bed and come straight here for today’s audition without shaving. She shouldn’t have thought about him rolling out of bed, because she started wondering if he was one of those men who slept in his shorts or pajama bottoms.

Or naked.

She sucked in a shaky breath. He’s only said my name and I already have him naked in bed.

A hint of a smile raised a corner of his mouth. She hadn’t noticed before that he sported a soul patch, neatly trimmed, underneath his full bottom lip.

“Ellie Rockwell, right?”

“Bill Romero,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “I saw you in the audience.”

“I thought you noticed me.” He looked her up and down. “You’ve…changed.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” she murmured, her gaze sliding down to the colorful tattoo that trailed from underneath his sleeve down to his elbow. Appeared to be the tail of something.

“It’s a dragon,” he explained.

Her gaze traveled back up the green and burnished gold scales that disappeared underneath his sleeve.

“The rest,” he murmured, “goes up my arm. One claw’s on my back, and its head falls across my chest.”

She stared at his chest, imagining the head of the beast permanently inked on his molded pec.

“A fire-breathing, ice-breathing or acid-spitting dragon?”

“Fire.” He looked surprised. “No one’s ever asked me that before.”

Being a good glam goth chick, she knew her dragon basics, but no way she’d admit that. Usually her attitude was if somebody didn’t like her style, tough. But this was different. This was Bill Romero. He’d obviously come backstage to see the beach babe Ellie, and no way she’d let on he’d fallen for a look that was the antithesis of the real her. This was Cinderella at the ball time. The prince was flirting with her, and she was going to run with it.

“I think I saw some of those dragons when I got my Queen of Evil tattoo,” she lied.

Bill made a murmur of approval. “Now that’s a tattoo I’d like to hear more about.” He glanced over her shoulder at the half-eaten muffin. “Looks like I interrupted your snack?”

She made a dismissive gesture toward it. “I’d skipped breakfast, so…”

“I skipped breakfast, too.” His gaze held hers for a moment. “If I didn’t have to get back, I’d suggest we grab a bite. Catch up.”

Get back? She flashed back to yesterday when he’d asked if that was her car. He hadn’t been dressed up either day…could he be making money parking cars? She wouldn’t ask, didn’t want to embarrass him. What had happened to his dreams?

“Last we saw each other,” she said nonchalantly, “you were leaving for film school.”

“Yeah, went to New York University.” He cocked that half smile again. “Surprised you remember.”

She shrugged as though, oh, sure, just one of those things that popped up from some distant memory instead of something she’d thought about a lot these past seventeen years. Everything about that night he’d told her he was moving away was burned indelibly into her brain. The moon had been full, yellow and waxy in a smoggy sky. Lavender scented the air. Down the block a radio blasted a popular Ice-T rap song.

She waited for Bill to say more, but nothing. Had he come back to L.A., armed with his degree, only to find nobody wanted to hire another starry-eyed wannabe? She’d seen a lot of people lose their dreams in the city of dreams. Actresses who thought they’d be the next Meryl Streep, writers who thought they’d be the next Eszterhas, directors who thought they’d be the next Scorsese. All of them waiting for their big breaks while serving tables or working on construction sites or…

Parking cars.

She dropped her gaze, caught the splatter of brown on his shirt. “Spill something?”

He looked down, back up with a sheepish smile. “Coffee. Actually, I took a break from my casting duties to see if I can get it out. My buddy’s covering for me.”

She blinked. “Casting duties?”

“Yeah.” He raked a hand through his thick, full hair. “I’m just helping out, for today only.”

“Part-time job?”

“More like a favor.”

So things hadn’t gone well. She’d get off the topic, help him save face. “I’d suggest dabbing that with soda water. If you can’t find that, cold water.” She smiled. “I run a coffee shop so I deal with stuff like this all the time.”

“Coffee shop, eh? I’ll definitely take your advice, then.” But he didn’t do a thing except stand there and stare at her. Was her bad-girl blonde makeover working?

“I should be getting back,” he murmured.

“Sure.” Do something! Invite him to the beach house, ask him out for another cup of coffee to make up for the one he sloshed, ask his zodiac sign, something. “Nice seeing you.” Good one, El. Your big moment and you wuss out.

“Nice seeing you, too.” He started walking away, paused. “Going to the festival later?”

“I’m entering some of the events. My girlfriends and I want to win the grand prize. You can enter as a group, you know, so that’s what we’re doing.” I’m babbling. “Except for this audition. Not a group thing, obviously. We figured after I was done over as a beach babe…” Not good. Overbabble.

“Done over?”

She smiled shakily. “Girl talk for getting fixed up.” She’d never lied this much. “I probably wouldn’t have auditioned if they hadn’t made me do it.” At least that was the truth.

He looked her down, back up, making a zillion goose pimples skitter across her skin.

“I’m an idiot,” he mumbled. He hit the palm of his hand against his forehead. “I got so caught up seeing you again, I forgot to tell you something.” He smiled warmly. “It’s a good thing your girlfriends talked you into auditioning, because Ellie Rockwell, you’re hired.”

She blinked. “I am?”

He nodded.

“You get to pick people?”

“Just for today. See Peter, the casting assistant who’s sitting in the front row, and tell him I said you’re hired. He’ll explain how you’re paid, where to report, stuff like that.”

“Great. Thanks.”

They stared at each other for another long moment.

“I need to get out there,” Bill finally said.

“Right. You don’t want to blow this opportunity.”

He frowned.

She gestured lamely toward the audience out there. “You know, doing this casting gig you’re doing as a favor could lead to another job.”

He looked surprised, then sputtered a laugh. “I already have a job on Sin on the Beach. I’m the first assistant director.”

Her body felt as though a shock wave had passed through it. Not unlike how she’d felt years ago at a high-decibel, sensory-overload Marilyn Manson concert. Bill wasn’t some dreamy-eyed wannabe, he was the first assistant director. Of Sin on the Beach. A Big Man on the Set. He probably had bikini-clad chicky-babes hanging all over him 24/7.

So what if he came backstage to tell her she was hired, tell her he remembered her, there was no way such a hotshot would want anything more to do with an extra.

Bill scrubbed his knuckle over his chin. “A lot of those festival competitions require two people to compete.”

She nodded.

“Might be a little awkward to enter some of those with your girlfriends…unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

It took her a moment to get his drift.

“You think I’m—Oh, no.” She laughed at the thought of her being lesbo with Candy or Sara. “Not that they aren’t attractive and fascinating women, but I’m not into that. Anyway, they both appear to have guys they’re entering the contests with.”

“And you don’t?”

“No.”

“How terrible.” He gave her a look that made her kneecaps go soft.

“Yes,” she murmured, “downright horrible.”

He grinned, glanced at his watch. “After auditions, I’ll have the rest of the day off. Meet me backstage, same spot, at two o’clock and I’ll be your partner.”

It took a moment for the adrenaline rush to subside before she remembered how to nod yes. Partner. That had to be on par with “date,” right?

She was having a date with Bill Romero.

Bill take-my-heart-and-do-me-all-night-long Romero.

As long as she got home before her carriage turned into a pumpkin, and her bikini into her glam goth T-shirt, this could be a fairy-tale date to die for.

“Two it is,” she whispered.

3

ELLIE WAS TOO PUNCTUAL for her own good. Not that being on time was a bad thing, but it was when you were overly anxious to see the guy of your childhood dreams, who happened to not be punctual. Backstage again at the food table, she nibbled on grapes and hoped she looked okay in her red bikini, fishnet cover-up, retro polka-dot wedgies and over-theshoulder mini brocade purse. When she’d left the beach house, she’d felt fine, but after passing dozens of girls in Easter-egg color bikinis and nondescript sandals, she was starting to wonder if she looked too over-the-top.

That she, a glam goth diva, was actually fretting about looking over-the-top suddenly made her laugh. Back at her apartment, her entire wardrobe was a swirl of purple, black and red satins and laces. This beach babe makeover was frying her brain. Next she’d be buying frosted pink lipstick, eating granola and saying “dude.”

“Hey, how’s my Ellie?” said a familiar, deep voice. Bill.

Her heart thumped a wanton, pagan beat.

My Ellie. She lost the ability to speak for a moment. “Great.” My Bill.

He looked effing incredible. That mocha skin, those brown eyes, that windblown black ’fro—colors so rich and dark, they made her insides quiver.

Maybe it was because of the canvas tent, but the light seemed pale and ephemeral. Summer heat shimmered in the air, hot and intangible. And in the midst of it all stood Bill, like a chocolatey, rough-edged hip-hop prince. Wild on the outside, in control on the inside.

The moment was broken when a girl, who looked to be around nineteen, bounded up and tapped Bill on the arm. She wore short-shorts, a halter top, her shiny blond hair tied back in a ponytail. Daisy Mae’s long-lost twin, no doubt.

The girl looked up at Bill with round liquid-blue eyes and smiled.

“Curtiss is having some problems with the boom mike for tomorrow morning’s shoot,” she said in a baby-doll voice. “He wanted me to tell you he’s picking up a new one today as backup.”

“Thanks.” Bill nodded, turned his attention back to Ellie.

But Daisy Baby-Doll didn’t leave. “I’m the new PA. Name’s Phoebe.”

Bill looked at her. “Hi, Phoebe.”

“Actually, my name’s Diane, but that’s so boring, so a few years ago I started calling myself Phoebe, and now everybody remembers me!”

Ellie had a feeling she knew why.

“Well, Phoebe,” said Bill, “nice meeting you—”

“If you ever need anything…” she said, her voice trailing off.

Like it was so hard to guess what that anything might be. To stop herself from saying something she might regret, Ellie stuffed a grape into her mouth.

Of course, women had always loved Bill, and he’d loved his share back. She had many memories watching him from her living room window while he laughed and flirted with the girls on the block. Even back then, he had that certain something that attracted the opposite sex in droves. Call it confidence, charm or being blessed with more than his share of pheromones, but the guy had it.

Bill glanced at Ellie, back to Phoebe. “Look, I’m taking a meeting here….”

Taking a meeting? This wasn’t a date? Ellie shoved another grape in her mouth.

Phoebe rolled back her shoulders, which made her breasts stick out even more, and plastered on a smile. “Well, Bill, see you around the set.”

She’d barely bounced away before a tall, preppie-looking guy sidled up to Bill. “Man, you should be bottled.”

“Behave.” Bill turned to Ellie. “This is my main man, Jimmie,” he said. “We met on our first day at NYU. I was the tough guy from East L.A. Jimmie was the class act from Connecticut. I decided to like him anyway.”

She smiled while swallowing the grape, which felt like a chunk of lead going down her throat. “Nice to meet you, Jimmie.”

“This is Ellie Belle,” said Bill. He slung his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “He taught me how to order wine, and I taught him how to siphon gas.”

But she was still back at Ellie Belle. Nobody had called her that in years. It had been her dad’s nickname for her, one her mom had occasionally used after her dad left, but nobody had used it since. Not even Matt. Had Bill overheard one of her parents and, all these years later, remembered?

Jimmie extended his hand, which she took. “And after that eloquent introduction, let me say it’s very nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” They shook hands.

“Heard you two were next-door neighbors years ago.”

“That’s right.”

“No offense, but you sure don’t look like someone from the hood.”

“Well, we don’t normally wear bikinis with fishnet cover-ups there.”

Jimmie looked surprised, then laughed. “I, uh, didn’t mean that.”

“Sorry, I knew what you meant.” She’d heard comments like that plenty of times, mostly from people who’d rarely, if ever, been to the hood. She used to take offense, then realized what mattered more than a person’s question was the intention behind it. Jimmie, despite his Brooks Brothers appearance and precise diction, had a sincere streak.

“Actually, when my mom and her mother moved there in the late fifties, there were families in that neighborhood straight out of Father Knows Best. The melting pot started getting stirred more during the seventies.” She’d skip over what everyone knew—that the area grew economically depressed, gangs arrived, street crime mushroomed and that’s when things could get dicey if you didn’t already have your friends and community in place, which the Rockwells did. “The hood’s changing for the better these days, though.”

Bill made a disgruntled noise.

“It’s true. Homes are being renovated, new businesses are moving in—”

“C’mon, Ellie, nobody really cares about our old stomping ground. The powers that be wrote off that part of L.A. a long time ago. I, for one, will never go back.”

“Can’t turn your back on your roots,” Jimmie said to Bill. “Don’t you still have family there?”

“Those who stayed deserved what they got.”

Ellie bit the inside of her lip. She didn’t like hearing his negativity, but she had to remember how Bill, like Matt, had taken on the role of man of the house at an early age. Except Bill had had four younger siblings, which hadn’t been easy.

Jimmie, obviously picking up on the heavy vibes, changed the subject. “Those are some shoes.” He nudged his head toward her feet.

“They’re retro sling back wedgies,” she said, tipping the toe of red-and-white polka-dot sandals this way, then that. “Got them at Sinister Shoes.”

Bill gave her a funny look. “Sinister Shoes?”

“I’ve heard of that place,” said Jimmie. “It’s down on Melrose. All the goths go there to shop.”

“Goths.” Bill shook his head. “Elvira’s cool, but I don’t get that whole vampire thing. They all seem depressed or something.”

Her insides shrank a little. Made her feel like a fake and a liar pretending not to be one of those into that whole vampire thing. It was really about loving the darkness, the mystery in life, but she didn’t want to explain.

All she wanted was this day, this experience with Bill, and for that she was willing to pretend she was somebody she wasn’t.

She angled her leg, showing off. “These shoes are really more of a retro pinup look,” she said a little too gaily. “Similar to what Betty Grable wore in those World War II posters.”

Bill and Jimmie stared at her.

“Betty Grable?” Bill finally said. “She was a movie star way before your time.”

“I’ve always loved the Golden Age of Hollywood, even as a little kid. I sometimes envision the stars like Audrey Hepburn, Veronica Lake, Betty Grable when I design some of my clothes.” When they looked at her black fishnet cover-up over her red bikini, she added drolly, “These aren’t my designs. I bought them at Target.”

A grin sauntered across Bill’s lips. “You did a lot of sewing as a kid, didn’t you? I think my mom said something about it once.”

She nodded, feeling a little giddy that he’d remembered something else about her as a child. Maybe she’d been more memorable than she’d given herself credit for.

“Hollywood’s Golden Era is one of my favorites,” he continued. “It spawned dozens of classic westerns, comedies and thrillers. Plus, it was the birthplace of film noir.”

“Watch out, Bill,” Jimmie teased, “your cine-matic-nerd side’s showing.” He glanced at his flashy gold watch. “Gotta split. Told Bev I’d take her to the festival, play some of those games. She’s hot about trying to win some grand prize cabin.”

“Beach bungalow,” corrected Ellie.

Jimmie nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. I guess the winner gets a free rental there for the next two years.”

“Ten,” she corrected again. She hadn’t realized she’d been so into it until this moment. Sure, she’d been willing to be Team Java Mammas with the girls, but she hadn’t been personally driven to win anything other than the audition until this moment. Had to be the thought of hanging out with Bill for the rest of the afternoon, doing fun, wild things in some of those hot games.

And, if all went well, even more wild things afterward.

What Happens in Malibu Stays in Malibu.

“Ten, eh?” Jimmie gave a low whistle. “Now I’m glad I gave in and said yes to Bev.” He snagged a cookie off the food table. “What time does the shoot start tomorrow?” he asked Bill.

“Five a.m. sharp. We need the rising sun in the background for that first shot.”

Jimmie groaned. “Whoever said showbiz is glamorous needs their head checked.” He pointed at his pal. “Watch out for that guy,” he said to Ellie as he headed toward the tent opening.

Wouldn’t Bill be surprised to know she’d been watching out for him for a long, long time.

After Jimmie left, Bill stared at Ellie, trying not to think how drop-dead sexy that fishnet cover-thing was over that red bikini. Very teasing. Very exciting.

Both of which were Ellie right now. All grown-up and hot and retro sexy in that peekaboo red bikini and matching shoes. Enough to make a man howl at the moon.

“What’re you thinking about?” she asked.

With another woman, he might have said. But with Ellie…well, it was different. He wasn’t exactly sure why, just knew he felt more protective. Of her, certainly. But also of their past. As though that bubble of time so long ago was more fragile than he’d realized.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Famished.”

“Me, too.” He guided her toward the tent opening, his arm comfortably around her shoulders, their steps in sync. “Let’s go to the festival and get some chow.”

Ellie felt as though they’d walked this way a hundred times. His arm rested so easily around her, the side of his body seemed to fit perfectly against her. Muscles against curves, hard into soft.

When he leaned his head down, she caught a whiff of his cologne—cinnamon and musk—and nearly swooned at the rich, dark scent. Someone had once told her cinnamon was an aphrodisiac, and if she didn’t believe it before, she sure did now.

“Something about you, Ellie,” he murmured, his breath hot against her cheek.

She waited, but he didn’t finish the thought. Even if he had, she doubted she’d have been able to stay focused and hear the words because she was caught up in sensations. His breath caressing her cheek, his thigh rubbing seductively against hers as they walked, that cinnamon scent shooting straight to the pleasure center of her brain.

They headed out into the blinding sunshine. The sand sank underneath her feet and she stumbled slightly.

“It’s those sinister shoes,” teased Bill, helping her regain her balance.

“I wasn’t sure what to wear at the beach,” she murmured.

“Coulda fooled me.” He gave her an appreciative once-over, which gave her no small thrill.

She plastered on her best beach-babe smile, although she felt like a total fake. Except for the shoes. And the fishnet. And the tattoos, of course.

And how she felt every time she was near him. Those feelings were as deep and real as they’d been when she was a girl.

They faced each other, the heat from the sun pouring down on them. In the distance, waves thundered against the shoreline. A couple of teenagers walked past, carrying umbrellas, towels and a radio that was blasting Sheryl Crow singing how she just wanted to have some fun.

So did Ellie. She’d started out telling herself this week was about chilling, then about winning points and being on her favorite show. But now all that paled to what she really wanted—to be with Bill and have fun. The kind of no-regrets, go-for-it fun she never allowed herself. Now was the perfect time to indulge herself.

And he was the perfect man to indulge herself with.

Everything would be great, too, as long as she kept up the facade, never let on that she lived in that depressing vampire world where he assumed goths resided. From what she’d gleaned, this was his only afternoon off, so she didn’t have to keep that facade up for long anyway. A few hours, hopefully more. Not a daunting task.

Although the thought of saying goodbye again was.

“Something wrong?” he asked, concern filling his eyes.

She glanced at the coffee stain. “It’s probably set by now. Too late to get it out.”

“Now, now, Ellie, so pessimistic,” he kidded, lightly rubbing her back.

She could feel the heat from his hand through the open spaces in the fishnet, warm and liquid against the bareness of her back. His touch was light, confident, exciting.

“We have bigger things to worry about than a coffee stain.” He took her hand and started walking toward the festival. “Like what should we order for lunch?”

It’d been seventeen years since her maddening childhood crush. Seventeen years of remembering and fantasizing about Bill, and now all those memories and dreams and girlish yearnings coalesced into this single afternoon. If she ever had the opportunity to live in the moment, this was it. To revel in each moment, each minute, each hour.

Even if what happened in Malibu stayed in Malibu, she’d have the memories of this afternoon for the rest of her life.

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