Sugar (2 page)

Unlike some in the industry whose money had gone to fund drug, gambling, or spending habits, she’d lived clean, saved smart, and invested wisely. She had an ocean-front bungalow in Venice Beach, a pied-à-terre on Paris’s Left Bank, and more money than she could ever spend. What was left to strive for? She thought of several once-well-known adult film stars reduced to scraping for work, some resorting to comic walk-on roles where drooping breasts and wobbly thighs were made a mock of, and suppressed a shudder. Better to give up the game while she was still winning—while she was still a star.

And there was another reason, one she wasn’t ready to share with anyone, not even Martin. Her former roommate and best friend, Liz, had breast cancer. Even after Liz got pregnant and left the industry to go back to New York, they’d kept in close touch—until six months ago when the regular contact had fallen off. When her first few messages went unreturned, Sarah had told herself it was the inevitable result of distance and differing life styles. Liz’s son, Jonathan, was in first grade now, and as a single mom supporting them with her graphic design business, Liz more than had her hands full. But then Sarah had happened to see Liz’s status update on Facebook—she had breast cancer, stage two. Fuck email and fuck Facebook. Sarah had picked up the phone. The fragility of the voice answering on the other end had shocked her. With remarkable calm, Liz had explained that the double mastectomy had gone as well as could be expected, but unfortunately the cancer had spread to several axillary lymph nodes. A rigorous course of dose-dense chemo was her best hope of beating the disease. Hanging up two hours later, Sarah was decided. Whether Liz admitted it or not, she needed hands-on help, and Sarah was determined to give it.

“I need you to make the announcement, send out a press release or call a press conference, whatever you think is best. I’ve already drafted a statement for my website, a short letter thanking my fans and fellow actors, and of course you, for all the years of loyalty and support.” She paused, holding his gaze. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I hope you know that.”

He let out another long breath. “Look, Sarah, sooner or later every adult film star hits the wall. Take my advice, and don’t burn any bridges. Take some time off, a couple of months, and think things over.”

“But—”

“Where’s the fire?” he broke in with a shrug of beefy shoulders. “Retiring is a lot like dying—once you’ve done it, there’s not much hope of coming back. C’mon, baby, have I ever steered you wrong?”

She swallowed hard, thinking again of all his support while she’d picked up the pieces of her life post-Danny. “No, you haven’t.”

“Good, then we’re agreed. As far as the press is concerned, we’re pulling out because this picture isn’t the right vehicle for you—period. We’re reviewing scripts for your next project, and in the meantime you’re taking time off, an extended vacation.”

In LA speak “extended vacation” was code for rehab. Martin probably figured the fumes from any such rumors would fuel her career long enough for her to change her mind about coming back. There really was almost no such thing as bad press, even if most of the “breaking news” and Twitter buzz was bullshit. As much as she planned to prove Martin wrong about the finality of her decision, beyond her inner urge for closure, she couldn’t come up with a good argument against waiting. Besides, it would be a lot easier to press her point from across the country than a restaurant table.

Sarah reached for her menu, although whatever appetite she’d walked in with was lost. “Okay, we’ll do it your way—for now. I’m on vacation. Sorry, ‘extended vacation.’”

Extended vacation—but in her heart, she knew what this move back to New York really meant.

M
anhattan, New York City,
One Month Later

“Sorry about tonight.” Iraq war veteran and now executive director of his family’s charitable foundation, Cole A. Canning bent to the taxi’s rolled-down rear window. “Feel better. I’ll call you,” he added, knowing full well he wouldn’t, at least not any time soon.

Candace lifted her chalky face and nodded, the minor movement sending an apparent ripple of pain over her pristinely made-up features. “O-kay, th-thanks?”

His date duties discharged, Cole stepped back to the curb, and the cab sped off. Watching it go, he released a relieved breath. The Canning Foundation Gala at the Soho Grand had been a bust as far as fund-raising—the response to the silent auction had seriously sucked— but at least Candace’s martini-induced migraine had given him an early out to the evening.

It was Friday night, or the early hours of Saturday morning, depending on your perspective. Lower Manhattan was party central or close to it for everyone from beer-guzzling NYU students to stressed-out finance guys swilling single malt. The possibilities were, if not infinite, certainly numerous. Another drink at a nearby watering hole? A strip show at one of the many Chelsea gentlemen’s clubs? Breakfast at a greasy spoon? Or he could head home to his Upper West Side pre-war and
not
sleep there. He’d moved in just six months ago, and already the hand-woven carpets were showing wear from his pacing. Even though he was a New Yorker born and bred, since returning stateside two years ago, he often felt as if the avalanche of choices was burying him.

Out of habit, he reached inside his tuxedo jacket’s pocket for his cigarettes. Pulling out the empty pack, he cursed. Had he really gone through the whole thing in the last three hours? Good thing smoking was prohibited in the city’s public places. If he could smoke openly, rather than having to sneak outside, his lungs would be seriously fucked.

But now he wanted a cigarette, and he wanted it too badly to care about the long-term health effects. If two back-to-back tours in Iraq heading an elite bomb disposal unit had taught him anything, it was that life was short and invariably uncertain. What was the point of denying yourself pleasure in the present when “someday” might never arrive?

Fortunately the corner bodega across the street still had its lights on. Pulling up the collar of his tuxedo jacket against the early spring chill, he wove his way through the oncoming cars. Reaching the mini market, he swung open the glass door, setting off the bell’s jangle.

The blonde bent over the frozen desserts freezer caught his eye the moment he walked in—or rather her ass did. Considering it was firm and round and worthy of Jennifer Lopez, not to mention all but shoved in his face, how could he not notice? His gaze slid downward to her legs—long and slim and beautifully shaped, with just the right amount of muscle beneath her form-fitting yoga pants. Her hair was shiny blond and pinned up with one of those hinged-clip contrivances that women seemed to reach for when they were in a hurry.

A plastic shopping basket looped over one slender forearm, she inventoried the ice cream selection as if lives hung in the balance. So far her back was to him. Curious to see if she had a pretty face to match the smoking hot body, he circumvented a snack display and deliberately navigated his way nearer. The maneuver gained him a glimpse of a sun-kissed profile and the contents of her basket—a half dozen individual ice cream cups and, so far, nothing else. Single and living alone, he surmised, no longer in any rush to be on his way.

Backtracking to the counter, he nodded to the Indian dude standing behind it. “Pack of Marlboro Black.”

The clerk turned away to the shelving behind the counter, grabbed the pack, and pivoted back around. “Fourteen fifty.”

Highway robbery but, like any addict, Cole was prepared to pay the price. He reached for his wallet and pulled out a twenty.

Waiting for his change, he cast a look back over his shoulder to the blonde. Should he maybe offer her a cigarette as an ice breaker? Dressed as though she’d come from an exercise class, she didn’t strike him as a smoker. Then again, he didn’t let his habit hold him back from pounding out his morning five in Central Park or from working out like a maniac at the gym. Some might call it exercise, but for Cole it was therapy, the only kind a Canning allowed himself—that and sex.

“Do you wish for a bag?”

What Cole wished for was an excuse to strike up a conversation with the blonde. Turning back to the counter, he shook his head. “No, thanks.”

He slipped the cigarettes into his coat pocket and turned around. The blonde had straightened. She stood, her body ever so slightly turned away from the freezer—and toward him. Holding out a carton of strawberry, she appeared to pore over the product packaging.

Cole grabbed a
Sports Illustrated
from the magazine rack and sidled over. Flipping pages, he cleared his throat. “Big decision, huh?”

She started, her heart-shaped face lifting to his, her full lips parting. Gazing into her emerald-colored eyes, it hit him.
I know her!
He wasn’t always the greatest with names, but faces he never forgot, especially beautiful ones. Cole racked his brain. Had he slept with her? No, her he would definitely remember.

“Excuse me?” She looked back at him as though annoyed by the interruption—definitely not the reaction he was used to.

He gestured to the ice cream thawing in her ringless left hand. “Those single servings are a kid-size portions. Why not just buy a half gallon?” Ditching the magazine, he moved closer.

Her deep-green gaze narrowed. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I like variety.”

Cole could feel the corners of his mouth kicking up. “What a coincidence, so do I.”

He didn’t miss how her slender shoulders stiffened. The way she raked him with her gaze had him wishing he’d waited before stripping off the bowtie and opening his shirt collar.

“Heavy night?” she asked, her tone giving the freezer stiff competition.

He shrugged. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Her gaze honed in on his coat pocket. “Smoker, huh?” She said the word as though it was synonymous with syphilis.

“Only on weekends,” he lied. “Besides, all the recent studies say processed food is the real killer.” He’d only read one such study. Okay, so he hadn’t read the actual study but had seen it referenced in a
New York Times
article—practically the same thing.

She let out a derisive laugh, her full mouth moistened with the tiniest dab of clear lip gloss. “Research sponsored by what, Phillip-Morris?”

At least he had her talking and smiling—well, sort of. Pressing his advantage, he added, “Why don’t we grab a drink somewhere and compare research notes?” Once he set her down with a drink, he’d have plenty of time to figure out how he knew her.

Perfect half-moon brows lifted. “It’s almost one o’clock in the morning.”

Cole shrugged. “Yeah and it’s also New York, so what do you say?”

She pulled a tight smile. “Thanks, but I don’t think so.”

It had been a long time since a woman had made him work for it, and the blonde was putting him through his paces. Her hard-to-get act was making him hard for real.

“Why not?” he asked.

She dropped the strawberry ice cream into her basket along with the others. “Not that I need to justify myself but judging from the smell of you, I’d say you’ve already had quite a few cocktails.”

The smell of him—ouch! That was harsh. Memo to self: buy breath mints on the way out.

“And my ice cream would melt.”

That settled it. Cole meant to make her melt—and cream. “I have ice cream at my place,” he said, flashing a smile. To his best recollection, his freezer held only a half-empty bottle of Absolut, but that would work too.

Her pretty lips firmed into a frown. Clearly his jaunty reference to taking her home had been premature, a major miscalculation. “You have a good evening.” She pushed past him to the counter.

Shit! She wasn’t playing hard to get or playing at all. She was blowing him off for real—and that really sucked. For the first time in . . . forever, Cole seriously considered dropping his surname. Canning wasn’t quite Kennedy, but so far as the fishpond of New York City society, it came close.

Ignoring the clerk’s smirk, he followed her over. “Suit yourself, but you’re missing out. I’d show you a really good time.”

Reaching inside her purse to pay, she let out a laugh. “It’s all my loss, I’m sure.” Her mocking smile sealed the sarcasm.

Cole held up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. “You win. Have a nice life. Enjoy your ice cream.”

She grabbed the plastic bag off the counter and turned to go. “Thanks, I plan to.”

He exchanged looks with the clerk, who remained sagely silent. Waiting until she’d cleared the threshold, he pointed again to the behind the counter shelving. “Make it a carton.”

A scream sent him spinning. Outside the glass storefront, a young guy in a navy blue hoodie body slammed the blonde. A vicious downward tug snapped the strap of her shoulder bag and sent her folding to the sidewalk. Shit! Cole tore toward the glass door, yanked it open, and raced out. He reached her just as the attacker sped off clutching her purse.

Cole spared a swift look down, his soldier’s eye assessing her for injury. She’d have bruised knees tomorrow, and her shoulder would be sore from where the bag strap had broken, but otherwise she’d be fine, at least physically. From experience he knew that the worst wounds were often on the inside. Once the adrenalin spike subsided, she’d be pretty shaken up.

“You okay?” he asked, holding out his hand.

She grabbed hold and got to her feet. Sparing a swift glance at the ice cream scattered along the garbage-stacked curb, she said, “Yeah but he got my—” “I saw. Call 911.” He reached inside his jacket pocket and tossed her his iPhone.

Heedless of his tuxedo and wing tips, Cole gave chase down West Broadway, his runner’s legs pulverizing the pavement, his sprinting strides cutting the thief ’s lead from more than a block to steps. Coming up on Canal, the scumbag tried losing him in the pedestrian traffic and late night food carts, but Cole kept his gaze locked on his quarry. Closing in, he lunged. He grabbed hold hard, bringing them both to the ground. The mugger landed in a face plant, the stolen handbag flying free. Pinning him to the pavement, Cole kicked the purse out of reach but not so far that someone might snatch it. Despite two years of disuse, his combat training kicked in, a dizzying, primal rush. He started in, raining punishing punches to the guy’s adrenals and kidneys. Groans and gasps, pleadings and promises punctured the collective quiet of bystanders’ bated breaths. To a man, the spectators stood sidelined. But then this was New York Fucking City. It wasn’t like anyone was going to grow the balls to step up and stop him. He could count on blind eyes and collective amnesia the moment the police arrived. He only hoped no one was Tweeting his picture or worse, taking video to post later. Given his standing in the philanthropic community, being made out as a brute on social media would seriously fuck with his fundraising. But he’d already gone too far to worry about that. Grabbing a fistful of the scumbag’s hair, he was poised to grind the guy’s face into the subway grill when he caught footfalls running toward them. New York’s Finest finally? It was about fucking time.