RISK(81)

"I haven't," I say quietly without looking at him.

No eye contact will make it easier for me to ignore him if he persists. I'm not a rude person but I do know how to protect myself with a perimeter of ignorance. Men give up easily if you pretend they don't exist. Most men do, that is. This one doesn’t seem to be taking the hint.

"Have far are you?" A large hand brushes against my skirt. "You at least got past the first chapter, right?"

Physical touching is a no-no. I scoot more to my left, trying to gain even a few more inches in distance from him. This train is bursting at capacity with commuters. Part of that is the time of day and the other is the route.

It's early evening and I'm headed for Times Square, one of the few places in the city I'd be happy never seeing again. It's too much for me. There are too many people, too much noise, the smells overwhelming and the energy frenetic.

"I'm not trying to accost you." He laughs. It's a sexy growl and a few women actually turn to see the source. Judging by the way they linger when they look at him, he's not hard on the eyes.

"I'm just trying to get to a book signing," I confess, hoping he'll leave me alone if I tell him, politely, that I'm not looking to hook up. "I need to get this signed for my boss. It's a gift from his wife."

"You're hoping to meet the author? Nicholas Wolf? I heard the line for the signing was around the block already. People have been waiting all afternoon to meet him."

"Shit." I finally turn to look at his face. "You're not serious, are you?"

He's as good looking as I imagined him to be based on his voice. Seriously hot. Like seriously, I will give this man my number if he asks me for it, hot.

Black hair, blue eyes, and just the right amount of stubble on his face are the appetizer. His perfect teeth, rugged jaw and his lips, oh those lips, are the main course. He's wearing a wool coat and jeans so who knows what dessert is, but it would be delicious. I know it would be so delicious.

"I'm serious," he says. "If you get in line now, the store is going to close before you'll get that book signed for your boss."

I roll my eyes. "I don't get the appeal. I have no idea why Gabriel likes it so much. He told me to read it so I read the first chapter and…" I point my thumb towards the floor.

"Thumbs down?" He cocks a dark winged brow. "You didn't like it?"

"It's too wordy. I was too bored to finish it."

He stares at the book before he speaks again. "I take it Gabriel is your boss? You're getting it signed for him?"

I nod sharply.

"Give it to me. I'd like to show you something."

It's not my book and since we're moving at breakneck speed inside a subway car, it's not as though he can grab it and run. I slide it from my lap to his.

"What's your name?" he asks as his hand dives into a leather bag sitting on the floor at his feet.

I watch his every movement. "Sophia. My name is Sophia. What's your name?"

He pulls a silver pen from out of the bag and before I can protest, he opens the cover of the book and starts writing.

Well, shit. I bet it's his number. I'm not going to stop him. I'll just buy another book for Mr. Foster and keep this one for me.

He closes the cover of the book, slides the pen back into his bag and turns to look at me.

"My name is Nicholas. Nicholas Wolf."





Coming Soon





Preview of WORTH


A Two-Part Novel Duet Featuring Julian Bishop




I notice him immediately. It's impossible not to. Julian Bishop is the man of the hour, after all. This celebration, complete with expensive champagne and stiff-backed wait staff, has drawn the crème de la crème of Manhattan's social elite. It's the place to be tonight, and with a lot of crafty manipulation and a fair bit of luck, I'm standing in the midst of it, wearing a killer little black dress and diamond earrings I borrowed from a broker who has sold more than her fair share of apartments with Park Avenue addresses.

"I got you another glass of champagne, Maya."

I turn toward my date for the evening, taking the tall crystal flute from his hand. I enjoy a small sip while I look at his hands. They're adequate, not too large, and not too small. Those hands, along with the brief kiss he gave me when he picked me up tonight promise a night of passion that would be forgettable at best. He's nothing to write home about or to write about at all, for that matter.

"Thanks, Charlie," I purr. "Where's your drink?"

He nudges the sexy-as-all-hell, black-rimmed glasses up his nose with his index finger. He has a nerd with a side of male model look. That's what made me stop at his desk two weeks ago to ask if I could borrow his stapler.

I don't staple. If I did, I'm sure I'd find one in my desk, hidden underneath the three dresses and two pairs of shoes I have tucked in the drawer. I never know when a change of wardrobe is called for. A girl has to be ready for anything when she's trying to claw her way up the hierarchy of the Manhattan real estate market.

"I had one. That's my limit." He squints as he looks at the bar. "Is she here yet? I heard someone say she's going to make an entrance."