by Sarah Hegger
Also by Sarah Hegger
Nobody’s Fool
Nobody’s Angel
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Nobody’s princess
SARAH HEGGER
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by Sarah Hegger
Title Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page
To Kim Handysides,
for all the friendship,
support,
and love you give so freely.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book took a lot of effort by a few very special people. Thanks to Rhenna Morgan for keeping the spirit of Penny alive. To my long-suffering editor, Esi Sogah, for not yelling at me when I so clearly deserved it. And to the team at Kensington, who work so hard to bring my words to readers. Also, to the members of the Sarah Hegger Collective—you guys are why I keep writing.
Chapter One
Tiffany needed a man, about six-two with blond hair and a tan. Right now, or life as she knew it was over. Teeny exaggeration, but she was desperate for one white male, twentysomething, handsome, light eyed, and ripped and cut like every girl’s dirty dream.
In Chicago, a city of a shade over 2.7 million people, 48 percent of them male, and 31 percent of them white, how hard could that be? Of course, to accurately calculate the chances she’d need to break that down into how many of the male residents were white and between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. If she could get five seconds to write this all down in her book, she could do it.
“Did you get hold of the casting agent?” Piers fussed with his camera, his face already the telltale pink prefacing a meltdown. Dear God, not that. Piers could throw a time-chewing tantrum to rival a toddler. Time was not her friend today.
“No.” Tiffany snapped her book shut and hit Redial. She kept Piers in her peripheral vision. Please, let the woman be there. Piers was going to go nuclear any second now. If Piers lost it, the shoot would run over. Her new life started in a little under three hours and she couldn’t be late for that.
“Hi, you’ve reached the voice mail o—”
“Shit.” Tiffany ended the call. She refused to let this stop her. If necessary, she’d march outside and drag the next blond man in here, but she was going on her date. Tonight. “I’ll keep trying.” She smiled apologetically at Piers. As if that would stop a meltdown. Not. “Okay, let’s get the rest of you ready.”
It was so unfair, she had all the other models—Asian, black, Hispanic, Indian, and Franco, who was Italian, but apparently had the bone structure and sleek, long hair to pass for Native American. Tiffany wasn’t sure his real name was Franco. Maybe he wasn’t even Italian.
“Tiffany?” Piers tapped his foot impatiently.
She spun toward the cluster of hotness lounging about, looking effortlessly gorgeous. Except that much perfect took serious work. The fresh bagels she’d fetched that morning lay untouched—two hundred and fifty calories per bagel, another fifty for the cream cheese. She moved the bagel plate to the other side of a dish of strawberries. One dish aligned to the right of the cream cheese, another to the left. She snatched up a strawberry and popped it in her mouth. Four calories. You had to love numbers.
The models shifted to their feet in a tidal wave of undulating muscle. Pumped up, made up, and ready to shoot. Six-two, six-four, six-one—no, the order didn’t work for her. Tallest to shortest or the other way around would be better. Maybe even tallest in the middle and descending in height order on either side. If Piers ever asked her opinion, she would tell him so. This was not her job, however. Her job was gofer, as in go for this and go for that. Shut your mouth, do as you’re told, and show up looking fabulous. She took a deep breath. Two hours and fifty-five minutes to the launch of New Tiffany.
“Give me beautiful, darlings.” Piers glanced up from his camera. “Get me that casting agent,” he yelled at her. “And for Christ’s sake get them oiled down.” Piers winked at the models. Flirting with the “meat” was his sole prerogative. “I need muscle. Big, shiny, I want to lick it muscle.”
Didn’t they all. Tiffany patted the side pocket of her Dolce & Gabbana tote, reassuring herself that her book was safe and waiting for her.
She hit Redial with one hand and grabbed the bottle of body oil with the other. God, she’d stroked more abs than any girl could fantasize about. Pretty much her only job perk. Six models, each with a six-pack, did that make thirty-six abs or eighteen? It would depend on whether you considered one ridge of muscle as consisting of two separate …
“Lower,” Franco purred in her ear.
“Oh, puh-lease.” Tyrone grabbed the bottle from her and oiled himself. “There’s nothing down there, sister.” He rolled his eyes at Tiffany dramatically. “And believe me, I’ve looked. Now, if you really want to—”
She slapped a handful of oil onto the nearest corrugated stomach. Her gaze drifted to the hot pink corner of her book peeking over the edge of the tote, the abs calculation forming in her head. She needed to write it down before she forgot. A tiny moment of sanity hovered, right there between those special pages. Later.
“Time?” Piers shouted.
Tiffany checked her phone. Shit. “Two forty,” she called back and braced for impact.
“Christ on a stick, Tiffany.” Piers started his meltdown. Tiffany counted slowly backward. Five, four, three, two, one, and—“Fucking twenty to fucking two. Shit. Fuck. Bum. Bugger. Willy. Dick.”
The models suppressed a snicker or two. They couldn’t help it. With his British accent, it never sounded that bad when Piers swore. It sounded sort of cute. The cuteness wore off fast, and after seven years of working for Piers it wasn’t even mildly amusing.
“Get that silly cunt from casting on the motherfucking phone and ask her where my fucking white boy is. Tell her to get his pale arse down here or he will never work in this motherfucking cesspit of a fucking fuck-nose shitting town again.”
“Impressive,” one of the models murmured beneath his breath. This must be his first Piers shoot.
“He’s just getting started.” Tiffany grabbed the oil and smeared. The waves of rage emanating from Piers almost made her hands shake. She tried the casting agent again. Shit, she had only booked the studio for another two hours and fifty minutes. Her schedule was sliding straight into the toilet.
“Adjust the package on …” Piers clicked his fi
ngers as he came up blank on the name. “Um … number two.”
“Tyrone,” number two helpfully supplied.
Heat crawled over Tiffany’s face. Her gaze dropped to the bulge of Tyrone’s crotch. Tyrone spread his arms out and grinned. “Go ahead.”
Sinfully beautiful, and Tyrone knew it. She couldn’t resist grinning right back. Such a pity he was gay. And she was in a steady relationship with the most wonderful man. In. The. World. Everybody said so. Ryan was perfect. Maybe not exciting, but she’d had exciting, and look how that had ended up? Disaster. No, Ryan was the one for her. No more wild, crazy rides. Her phone buzzed in her hand.
“Is that the casting agent?” Piers demanded.
“No.” Tiffany glared as Lola’s name lit up her screen. The woman’s timing couldn’t suck more. As much as she needed to speak to Lola—and she really, really needed to speak to her—she didn’t want to answer the call now. Five days she’d waited for Lola to call back. Lola pretty much ignored every call she didn’t feel like taking. Conversely, when Lola wanted to speak to you, she wanted it now and would blow up your phone until she got hold of you.
She hit Ignore and slipped the phone into her pocket. Why today of all days? It must be some kind of cosmic joke. Could you calculate coincidence? You must be able to. Nearly everything broke down to numbers in the end. Her gaze strayed toward the tote again. Her book seemed to shimmer and pulse for attention. Perhaps she could just quickly …
“Hi, I’m looking for Tiffany?” A deep voice spoke from behind her.
Tiffany whirled on her four-inch heels and looked up. And up some more. Oh, thank you, sweet Jesus. Her white boy was here and he was gorgeous. His blond hair was cropped close to his scalp. It brought all your attention straight to that face. And what a face. You could break rocks on that jawline. The straight blade of his nose rescued him from pretty, but the mouth beneath it curved full and etched, made for nibbling on.
Tiffany did a quick, happy two-step. He even had beautiful blue eyes. He might be a shade on the tall side, but they could fake that a bit. Not as young as she’d first thought, but makeup would fix that. Two vertical lines between his eyebrows gave off a sort of don’t mess with me vibe. She beamed at him. “You’re perfect.”
He raised an eyebrow, and returned her smile cautiously.
Oh, yes, yes, yes. He had one of those smiles, all innocent on the outside until you looked into those bad-boy eyes. Scrap the Botox, those laugh lines were smoking hot. She did a quick body scan. Nice. Very nice. If he looked as good out of that tight T-shirt as he did in it. Seriously, where had this boy been hiding himself?
Tiffany patted the sort of forearm that could be best friends with a jackhammer, and mentally forgave the casting agent. “Okay.” She stretched her fingers to capacity to grip his arm. Wow! And this from a girl who worked with wow every day. “We are going to have to hurry. Strip and let’s get you all pumped up.”
“Where the hell have you been?” Piers snarled. “Your call time was one thirty.”
Blondie opened his mouth to reply. Tiffany spun him toward makeup. No good arguing with Piers when he was on a tear. A waste of time they didn’t have. Things were turning around. The white boy was here, and he was gorgeous. The shoot would finish on time, and then she could deal with Lola. And still have time to prepare herself for the night.
Blondie stood there giving the other models a thorough eye scan. Gay. What a shame. She shook her head at herself. What did it matter? She was practically an engaged woman.
Blondie hovered at her side.
Clichés sucked, but some of these boys had no brain beneath all that brawn. Hooking her hands beneath the hem of his T-shirt, she tugged. “You have to take this off for makeup.”
“Are you taking my clothes off?” Blondie folded his huge paws around hers and stopped her. He had a great voice, like hot chocolate laced with rum. The sort of voice that would do great bedtime stories.
She hauled back on her thought path. “You have to strip.”
He looked right at her. Not past her or around her, but right at her as if he wanted to see straight into the center of her.
“Strip?” Up went one eyebrow.
Something she didn’t want to name crackled through the space between them. Sweat prickled her palms. Her hands were still fisted around his shirt, exposing about two inches of stomach. He had a garden path trail of hair disappearing below the low-slung waist of his jeans. That would have to go. Pity. Tiffany dragged her stare off his navel and focused on the writing on the front of his T-shirt: Never trust an atom—they make up everything.
Cool shirt. She and Blondie were probably the only two people in the world who thought it was funny. “Yes, strip.”
She pulled at the shirt and his hands tightened over hers. Tiffany glared up at him. Following up on late with an attack of modesty? Unbelievable. Did he think he would be modeling undershirts and long johns? “You have to take it all off.”
“Normally I get dinner first.” Those bad-boy eyes danced at her, inviting her to share the joke. For a second, she badly wanted to.
“Tiffany, sweetie.” Tyrone appeared beside her. “That’s not your model.”
“What?” Tiffany stared at Blondie. Of course he was her model, because otherwise she was stripping … A whimper caught in her throat.
He looked back at her.
Tyrone took her by the shoulders and spun her around. “That’s your model.”
He pointed to a beautiful Rocky (as in the Picture Show, not Sly) look-alike talking earnestly to Piers. Piers lapped it up, waving one hand through the air and patting the pretty blond boy on the arm.
“I …” Tiffany peered over her shoulder. Please let the last two minutes be a figment of her imagination. Her figment grinned at her and tucked his hands into his back pockets.
“Tiffany,” Piers bellowed. “Get Mark into makeup. And get him a cup of coffee. The poor boy has had a horrible day.”
“I’m so sorry I’m late.” Mark approached her, his big blue eyes awash with apology. “I’m new in town and I got lost.”
“Sister,” Tyrone cut across him, “save it for the preacher and get your ass all prettied up. We are not getting any younger over here.”
“Yes, of course.” Mark scurried over to makeup, leaving Tiffany standing with Blondie.
“Well.” She hoped she wasn’t blushing as much as she thought she was. “I thought you were one of the models.”
“Thank you, I think.” His voice held enough of a laugh for Tiffany to see the funny side. The corners of her mouth tilted up.
“Tiffany,” Piers demanded from across the room. He waved his hand over a pair of briefs and frowned. “Do we like the color of these?”
And just when things were looking up. Thank God she’d had the foresight to pack different colors. “You don’t like them?”
“It’s just …” Piers plucked at his bottom lip, thrust one hip out, and stared down at the model’s skimpy underwear. “He has this lovely skin and I don’t think these do anything for it.”
Tiffany clenched her belly in protest. Piers looked ready to take one of his stands. This would throw her whole schedule off. There wasn’t enough of those briefs for anyone to give a shit about the color. And the model wearing them had an honest-to-God eight-pack, all carved out of his deep chocolate skin. She went with the tried-and-true response, guaranteed to win the argument. “That’s the color the client wanted.”
Tiffany held her breath as Piers glared at the yellow briefs. Take the shot, Piers. Please, please, please, take the shot.
“I don’t know why I must always work with people who have such fetid taste.” Piers stalked over to his camera.
Tiffany let her breath out.
“I wouldn’t wear yellow underpants if you paid me.” Blondie’s heavy baritone stroked her eardrums. His voice sent goose bumps frog-marching up and down her spine.
“Well, we’re paying him.” She turned to frown at him. “If you’re
not a model, then what are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
Goddamn it. Her phone slipped out of her hand. Blondie caught it in one paw.
“Do I know you?” Tiffany snatched her phone back.
“Nope.” He shook his head slowly. “We’ve never met. But I know of you. I’m a friend of your husband. Lola told me where to find you.”
“What?”
“I’m a friend of Luke’s. Your husband?”
That’s what she thought he said. Her heart skipped a beat. “Fuck!”
Chapter Two
The studio tilted around Tiffany.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Blondie glanced at Piers and back at her.
“Luke?” She forced the name past her stiff lips. “You want to talk about Luke?”
Threes, trouble always came in threes. Someone must have proven that. What were the odds? She needed to work out the odds. First the date, then Lola, returning her call today of all days. Now this guy showing up out of nowhere. Her fingers twitched to write this down, try to find the connection. The pink book beckoned from her tote bag.
“Yes.” Blondie smiled down at her. “His stepmother—Lola, is it? She told me where to find you.”
Son of a bitch! She should never have contacted Lola. That was her first mistake. Nothing good ever came of contacting Luke’s family. Only, with the proposal looming and the way things stood, she hadn’t really seen an option. She couldn’t very well accept the proposal of one man while she was still married to another. “I don’t have time to talk about Luke.” Ever. “And ex. He’s my ex-husband.”
