Chapter One

“The first thing you need to do in Vegas is get laid.”

Zoe Ambrose choked on a gulp of water. Her sister-in-law, Melanie, pounded her on the back. “Cough it up!”

With the way Melanie was hitting her, Zoe would be lucky if all she coughed up was water. “Stop,” she gasped before leveling her sister-in-law with a quasi-stern look. “That’s your advice: get laid? This conversation is quickly going the way of clichéd romance novel opening.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Zoe glanced up at the ceiling, then back at Melanie. “It’s not, but—”

“No buts.”

“Can I at least get a name first, or maybe something even crazier like dinner?”

A smile touched Melanie’s lips. “Well, you could gamble at the blackjack table first and hope that a hot guy would show up to teach you the finer points of betting.”

Zoe snorted. That was her sister-in-law’s response to everything. Okay, so maybe not to get laid or go gambling. But to do something outrageous. Well, outrageous to everyone who wasn’t Melanie. “I’m already taking a gamble with my luggage getting lost since I have about five thousand layovers. And don’t even get me started on earthquakes. It’s always earthquake season there. You can’t plan a trip around one,” she said, setting her bottle of water in the cup holder. “Did I mention I’m seriously scared of earthquakes?”

“The last one you were in was years ago and it barely registered much less made the evening news,” Melanie said, hitting play on the radio. The perky vocals of a unicorn singing about rainbows and magical carpet rides filled the minivan.

“Yay,” SmithAnn shouted from her car seat in the back.

Zoe turned and smiled at her niece. She grabbed a shoeless foot and tickled the bottom. The little girl was the spitting image of her mother, with curly blond hair and warm brown eyes. A sprinkle of freckles danced across her nose as she wrinkled it and squealed with glee.

The usual longing for a family like her sister-in-law’s hit Zoe hard and fast. She nibbled her bottom lip and bit back a sigh.

Slowly, Zoe turned around, adjusting the sunglasses perched on her nose. Miles and miles of cloudless, eastern North Carolina skies filled her vision as she looked out of the passenger side window. So blue, so much like—no she wouldn’t think of that right now. Or at all.

She shifted her attention to the road and frowned. The Johnsons’ florescent green mailbox seemed a lot closer to the road than it usually was. Her eyes rounded. It wasn’t closer; the minivan was practically off the curb.

“Holy crap,” Zoe shouted, her hands braced against the dash. “Mailbox.”

Melanie jerked the minivan to the left, narrowly missing the opportunity to scrape a racing stripe down the side of her vehicle. SmithAnn let out a high pitched shriek of laughter.

“Anyway, what do you think of my suggestion?” Melanie asked, her voice calm despite their near crash.

“I think you’re the woman my mother warned my brothers about,” Zoe muttered, mentally peeling herself off of the ceiling. She adjusted her seatbelt, pulling it tighter.

“Please. I am the woman your mother constantly warned your brother about. Proud of it, too.”

And that’s why Zoe loved her sister-in-law. Melanie was daring, bold and didn’t care what other people thought of her. While Zoe tried very hard to be good, to be responsible. To be perfectly boring while writing novels that, according to her mother, were “scandalous” because they contained s-e-x scenes. Why her mother spelled the word instead of saying it made no sense to Zoe.

God only knew what her mother would say (or spell) if Zoe revealed that the villain of her series was her favorite character to write, and that the heroine was secretly in love with the deliciously evil Dimitri while settling for the straight-laced Joshua.

“We’re here,” Melanie announced, parking the minivan by the curb.

Zoe kissed her niece good-bye, exited the passenger side, then headed to the back of the minivan to get her luggage. Melanie ambushed her, grabbing Zoe’s shoulders and looking her right in the eye.

“Promise you’ll let loose and have fun. Do the whole book signing and boring meetings while being respectable Zoe. Then go lock her in a closet and be a newly single woman with a rockin’ body who’s looking for a man. Or five.”

Zoe kept her mouth closed as Melanie continued talking. The quicker Melanie got her speech out of her system, the quicker Zoe could get to her gate.

“Promise me.” Melanie gave her a little shake.

She let out a heavy sigh. “Fine.”

“Say the words.”

“Aggravating sister-in-law.”

“Up-tight best friend.” Melanie hugged her, then sent her off with a smile. “Remember, do talk to strangers. Especially if they’re hot and male. If your normal response would be to say nothing, then do it anyway. Oh, I slipped a bikini in your carry-on.”

Zoe lifted her hand in the air, giving Melanie a backwards wave. “Love you.”

“Don’t ignore me!”

“Can’t hear you.”

The automatic door closed in behind her, or at least tried to. She glanced over her shoulder, watching as the metal and glass smacked her luggage again and again. Holland Springs’ tiny airport could really use some updating.

So could she.

Usually she was the luggage, letting life happen to her. At the next opportunity, she pulled her luggage free, straightened her shoulders and marched to security. It was time have a firm grip on her life, where she was going and what she’d do next.

Then she turned around. Flight check-in was to the right of her, not the left.

***

Christian Romanov sat in the music room of his father’s mansion, staring at the massive antique chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Sunlight filtered through the hand-cut crystal pendants, casting rainbows along the walls and hardwood floor. It had been his mother’s favorite. His father considered it an eyesore but there had been a story attached to it. One that involved Very Important People. Therefore the chandelier remained.

Unlike his mother. Or Christian for that matter.

Closing his eyes, he spread his fingers and slid them along the black and white keys of the Borgato, coaxing a soft tune as his agent, Martha Alfred, hit her stride, shouting at him over the phone.

“Your career is about to go the way of the Dodo once the press learns about this expensive, not to mention illegal, little habit. There are pictures in my inbox. Do you realize that if these are leaked, or discovered by anyone who isn’t me, you will become uninsurable? No financier will touch any film you’re associated with and—”

“Like I’ve told you before, it was years ago,” Christian said. Besides, he was wealthy enough to finance his own damn movies. “And I’ve been very honest about my past with the press and you.” For the most part anyway.

Martha harrumphed. “The date stamp on all seven read January of this year.”

“Impossible.”

“So you keep insisting, but these look legitimate.”

Nearly a year had passed since he’d last touched any illegal substance. It hadn’t been one incident that led to him go cold turkey, but rather a string of waking up without a clue as to where he was and what or who’d he done the night before.

Simply put, he’d had enough.

He stopped playing and opened his eyes. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be enough to convince anyone that the pictures really were half a decade old. He would look like the biggest hypocritical ass, not to mention liar, to ever walk the planet if they went viral, since he was slated to be the newest spokesman for Back To School.

The organization was endorsed by M.A.D.D. and D.A.R.E. In addition to those heavy hitters, an anonymous donor financially supported the effort B.T.S. made to get teens off the streets, off of drugs and/or gangs, and firmly on the path that led to a brighter future. Since his involvement had been made public, the paparazzi had done their level best to find out the identity of the donor, without success.

Christian knew exactly who the donor was and he wasn’t telling. The designation of anonymous meant just that—anonymous.

Besides, this was something he’d done without agents, managers or public relations assistants. It was all his idea, his way of making amends for all the ways he’d screwed up over the years. The next round of public service announcements, featuring him, would start this fall. He had all but signed away his first born to get them to take a chance on him. To get them to look past his party reputation, the drunken clips on TMZ and the People Magazine documented failed relationships.

The very real possibility that it all could be shot to hell in a matter of minutes left him cold inside.

“The photos have been manipulated.” There were only a handful of people that were privy to his finances and personal activities. The majority of them were bound by ironclad confidentiality agreements. As for the others…

“This isn’t you at a party, snorting coke off of a table, the bar and on three different strippers’ stomachs?”

Frustration kicked him in the gut. “Yes, it’s me, but—”

“Doesn’t matter. Bad press doesn’t equal movie roles anymore. The economy won’t allow it. I won’t allow it. Are we clear, Mr. Romanov?”

He swallowed the retort that sprang to mind. It would do no good to argue with the tenacious woman. Or tell her that his career was second to his reputation with B.T.S. “Crystal, Ms. Alfred.”

“Find a non-Hollywood type of woman to be seen with once you get back to the States. This is not a suggestion. You will revamp your image. You will start taking leads in chick-flicks, and become all minivan-family-friendly. Why don’t we start with something simple, like having the press call you Christian Romanov instead of your stage name Ian Romanov?”

“Tell Bryson I’m dying to audition for the male lead in The Heart Says Yes.” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but knew Martha didn’t care as long as she got her way. “But my name remains as is. It’s how I keep things separated.” No matter how inconsequential it seemed. There were very few people that called him Christian. Martha, despite their years of working together, wasn’t one of them.

“It’s your career on the line, not mine.” She ended their call.

A butler entered the room and gave him a small nod.

Christian shrugged into a cashmere overcoat and slid on leather gloves. He walked out of the townhome, then jogged down the front steps. A silver Mercedes with darkly tinted windows idled in the circular drive. Boris, the Romanov’s head of security, waited by the back passenger side door and opened it for Christian.

He slid in and found Sebastian staring at him, blue eyes as cold and icy as Lake Baikal in April. Christian met the unflinching gaze with one of his own and smirked, running his hands through his hair.

“I know, I know. It’s like looking in a mirror. Makes a brother all reminiscent about our childhood.” Before they became more like enemies than brothers. Before nothing was expected of Christian and everything was expected of Sebastian.

“You are becoming more American by the year. At least you remember the correct form of dress.” Sebastian picked up the iPad on the seat beside him. “Two more years, then your permanent return is expected and Ian, the Hollywood Actor, is no more. Which would help your legend live in memoriam best: plane crash, car explosion, or overdose?”

“Just listening to you would make any man die of boredom. Contact your secretary for an appointment, shall I?” Christian would retire from acting when he damned well pleased, not because he was needed in the family business.

“Always the comedian.” Sebastian glanced at the window, then back at him. “Ready for the soiree this evening?”

An evening of forced conversations and associations? Christian fought the grimace threatening to pull down the corners of his mouth. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

“Dammit, Christian. Is there any way you could ever be discreet?” Sebastian asked, all attention on the iPad in his lap.

“The press won’t let me.”

“‘Vivian Cross is lonely in London. She’s pining away for former flame, Ian Romanov’,” Sebastian read from the screen, then stabbed at it with his finger. “Why does anyone read this drivel?”

Because people craved it, whether the gossip was true or not. Hell, if he so much as sneezed in the general direction of any woman, he was suddenly canoodling with her.

God, he hated that word.

“If I told you, it would only confirm every bloody opinion you’ve had about American culture,” Christian said with a small rise of his brows. “As for Vivian, it’s not true. We were never together. She’s married. Happily, I might add, but even if she weren’t, I stay away from married women.”

Sebastian barked out a laugh. “The fabrications of your life are so entertaining. How unfortunate you leave in two days.”

In two days he would have to find a woman, with whom he’d be expected to fabricate an entire relationship. Damn his brother and damn his agent. “My entire career, not to mention a very worthwhile organization’s reputation is at stake, thanks to you sending those pictures to Martha,” Christian growled, hands fisting.

“What makes you think I was the one to send them to her?”

Was Sebastian serious? Christian’s knuckles cracked. “You sent them the first time. Luckily, the person who received them is a friend and wouldn’t take your money. Afterwards, I had the IP address traced.”