 
_The Inside Out Series_

by

Lisa Renee Jones

Now in development for cable TV

Sample booklet

_Plus a first look into the spinoff series Careless Whispers_

_Ella's story begins!_
Table of Contents

The Inside Out Series

PART ONE

About the TV show

Connect with the producers

Meet the producers: Team Todd

Interview with Julianna Hayes of Team Todd

Be a VIP

Part Two

About the series

Series Inspiration

The Story

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Part Three

Character profiles and bonus excerpts

Bonus Chris and Sara excerpt (R Rated!)

Character profiles continued

Bonus Sara and Mark Excerpt

Part Four

Places from Chris and Sara's visit to Paris

Playlist

Reading order

Part Five

A sneak peek into DENIAL!

About the book

Chapter One from DENIAL

And now for a steamy excerpt from DENIAL

Part Six

Series Graphics

Series Quotes

Book Club Questions for

If I Were You

About the author

Lisa Renee Jones

Buy links

###

###

# _PART ONE_

## About the TV show

### Connect with the producers

Exciting television news coming soon! Watch Lisa's website for the updates www.lisareneejones.com

### Meet the producers: Team Todd

Suzanne Todd is an American film and television producer whose movies have grossed over two billion dollars worldwide. She is the owner of the film production company Team Todd and has produced hits for nearly every major studio. Suzanne's films have been honored by the Academy Awards, Golden Globes and Emmys, and she has been presented with many awards including Women in Film's celebrated Lucy Award, the Independent Spirit Award for Best Picture, Cosmo's Fun Fearless Female Award, the Glaad media award, four Saturn Awards, several MTV Movie Awards, a People's Choice Award and many others.

More information can be found at <http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0865297/>

### Lisa sat down for a chat with Julianna Hayes of Team Todd

**Lisa:** As an author with a project in development for television, it's been fun and extremely interesting to see even a tiny bit of how Hollywood works, a place where the glitz and glamour are exciting, but there's a lot of hard work to make it shine! Having Team Todd working on a series based on my books is like a dream come true. At the helm is Suzanne Todd, who is known as the quintessential professional, so it didn't surprise me to find someone as inspiring as Julianna Hays working for her. Julianna's taken the unconventional path from small-town farm girl to aspiring zoologist to being an integral part of Team Todd's development team for almost eight years, which is an amazing feat in an industry known for its revolving door.

Recently, I had the opportunity to chat with Julianna about everything from how her journey began, to what it takes to find a project and see it to the big or small screen. Part one of my interview with Julianna focused on how she came to be where she is today with Team Todd.

**Lisa: Did you always want to work in Hollywood?**

**Julianna:** No. I grew up on a dairy and tobacco farm in a small town in Kentucky called Tompkinsville. I was actually the first person ever in my family to attend college and if you get good grades there, it's expected you'll become a doctor, lawyer or teacher. Boy, how I've disappointed my family!

Growing up I didn't even realize there were careers in Hollywood besides being an actor. I just knew that I loved to go to the movies with my friends and to watch television, sometimes up to six hours a day. Since my parents were older, we didn't go out a lot, but we did watch a lot of TV together.

Because I had straight A's and high test scores, I received a full scholarship to theUniversity of Louisville, the big city! For me, anyways. I'd always loved animals and I've wanted to live in California since I was 12 years old, so naturally I thought I'd aspire to work as a zoologist at the San Diego Zoo, so I pursued biology as my major. While in college, I discovered the National Student Exchange Program, which is this awesome program that lets you attend college in any state in the country for a year while technically enrolled at your home university. Thankfully I was accepted, and this took me to Cal State University-Northridge. I liken it to living in California with training wheels. I lived in the dorm, had my car, and it was easy to make friends because of school. While I was in LA, I ventured down to the zoo and realized the job was a lot more scooping poop than excitement. That, in combination that I was working part time as a veterinarian technician and on a daily basis terrified I was going to accidentally kill someone's pet, made me realize that zoology was not for me.

At that point, I kept coming back to my passion for movies and television and saw an advertisement for interns at a small production company. I applied and was one of several interns hired. The internship wasn't great, but I read movie scripts for the first time ever and became hooked. That's how my career began for me.

**Lisa: What happened next?**

**Julianna:** I went back to Kentucky to finish school, then I moved to New York City where I got an amazing second internship at Tribeca Productions ( _Meet the Parents_ ). I love love love Robert De Niro, and _Meet the Parents_ is one of my favorite movies, so it was exciting to work there. Out of the interns, I was selected to work closely with Tribeca's development executive at the time, Rachel Cohen, and I was also able to volunteer at the Tribeca Film Festival that year. It was the most fun experience ever.

**Lisa: What do you think made you stand out, especially since your education wasn't geared toward that industry?**

**Julianna:** Well, I was the only intern out of six or seven who didn't attend an Ivy League university. That was eye-opening. Up until that point, I personally had never met anyone who had been to Harvard, Yale, etc. But I think I stood out because I have a really strong work ethic. That comes from years of working on a farm. At Tribeca I was always first to arrive and the last to leave. I listened, worked hard, and was available but not overbearing. I really wanted to learn, but it's important not to overwhelm the people you're working with as well.

**Lisa: So you left there, and then what?**

**Julianna:** When my internship ended, I decided it was time to make the real move toLos Angeles, so I packed up my car and drove across the country. I applied at Abrams Artists Agency and landed a job as first assistant to top children's talent agent Wendi Green (now an agent at Paradigm). My time with Wendi was invaluable because I learned to see the business and financial side of the industry, which is a critical part of what makes it function. I was exposed to high-profile talent and even negotiated some smaller deals. Having those experiences, along with learning insider lingo and the unspoken rules of the industry, gave me a foundation that was critical.

**Lisa: How long were you at Abrams and how did you go about leaving?**

**Julianna:** Being at Abrams solidified my desire to work on the development side, and I wanted to do it at a place that resonated with projects I felt passionate about. I really admired Suzanne and Jennifer Todd as fearless female producers in the business, and they had produced two of my favorite films, _Austin Powers_ and _Now and Then_. When I saw that Suzanne was looking for an assistant, I quickly applied. We connected in the interview, and now, almost eight years later, I've never looked back.

**Lisa: Before we move on to talk about the work you do with Team Todd, what advice would you give to people trying to break into producing and even other areas of the industry?**

**Julianna:** I have lots of advice! Absolutely work at a top talent agency. That is where I learned the industry and saw the big picture. Don't undervalue the importance of knowing the lingo and the way things operate. Also, network network network! That means many breakfasts, lunches and dinners to establish industry contacts. This business is a lot like high school. Assistants are freshmen, junior execs are sophomores, etc. Network within your level because you'll all grow up together, and it's important to establish those contacts early since this is a business where who you know counts for a lot. Most important, you need to love film and television and watch as much as possible. If you don't love them, you're in the wrong career. It's a lot of hard work and long hours. No scooping poop, though. Well, if you're lucky. Just kidding!

**Lisa: How does a project at Team Todd come to life? Do you find it and then take it to a studio, or does the studio find it and you then work on it from there?**

**Julianna:** It can happen in a variety of ways. Sometimes a writer comes to us with a pitch or spec script (a script they wrote on speculation with hopes of selling it) then we shop that to buyers such as film studios/financiers and television networks. For example, The Walt Disney Co. bought _Alice in Wonderland_ as a pitch from writer Linda Woolverton with producers Suzanne Todd, Jennifer Todd and Joe Roth. Sometimes we have an original idea or article or book, then try to find a writer to adapt it, then take out the pitch. Sometimes, in the case of books that are best sellers like yours or have the potential to be best sellers, we take it straight to the buyers who option it, then we work together to find the right writer. And then sometimes buyers approach us about a general area they are interested in then we try to find a project that fits within those parameters. Recently I read over 50 potential projects to find one we knew the network would want.

**Lisa: What does that entail? Do you bring in the writer and prepare a script? And do you try to attach a big-name actor to give it more leverage?**

**Julianna:** It varies from project to project and depends on a number of factors such as the genre and characters, the experience of the writer, and whether it's for film or TV. We will always work with the writer to get the project into great shape first as either a pitch or a script, then sometimes we will try to "package" it. Packaging is a fancy word for attaching a director, actor or showrunner (TV only) to the project before we shop it to buyers. If it's a director-driven film, we will try to attach a director before we take it out. If it has an amazing starring role, then we'll reach out to whatever actor we think would be perfect for it. In one instance, we worked with a talented, up-and-coming writer on a television series idea who wrote the script on spec, but because she didn't have any credits yet, we attached a television showrunner before taking out the project. There are so many factors involved.

**Lisa: How often do you buy a project and develop it and you just can't find a studio or a network to make it happen?**

**Julianna:** Unfortunately, it happens, and it's heartbreaking. You spend so much time working on a project that you really believe in, then for one reason or another it doesn't find a home. This happens a lot in movies where a film can be internally in development for many years, then finally things come together and you're able to move forward with it.

**Lisa: How often do you have a studio or network involved from the beginning?**

**Julianna:** At Team Todd we do a lot of internal development. Most of the time, we develop our projects with writers first then set it up at a studio or network.

**Lisa: What is the value of having a book you develop into a TV project or a movie versus a script? And what are the challenges?**

**Julianna:** I love books! It's great to start with a book because that means you already have an audience and fans of the story. The challenge is adapting it in a way that it works in the different medium and satisfies the existing fans while also bringing in new fans. I personally prefer books because I find it really exciting to have a hand in the development of the story from book to script. Writers are my favorite type of people and I love working with them!

**Lisa: How many books, and even scripts, do you think you read for every project you find you want to work develop?**

**Julianna:** Probably dozens. I'm very picky. I only want to work on projects that I think are based in cool and different worlds with unique yet relatable characters that inspire or make you think. Tall order, I know! That's what drew me to the Inside Out series. It's a beautiful, erotic story about a woman finding herself that also has mystery and is set in the art world, which is a world we have yet to see explored in television. I'm also really excited about a TV series we're currently shopping to networks for that can basically be summed up as _Teenage Homeland_ set in thePeace Corps. I've always wanted to join the Peace Corps, but never had the guts to do it, so I'd love to explore that world in television. Luckily, Suzanne has similar sensibilities, which is why I find working for her so much fun and rewarding.

**Lisa: How do you find those projects? Is it usually through agents?**

**Julianna:** I'd say about one-third of the time it's through agents, one-third through our own research, and one-third through writers we already have relationships with.

**Lisa: What about casting? Who is responsible for that?**

**Julianna:** The producers, the director and the studio/network all have a say in the casting choices.

**Lisa: So as the production company, once a project gets rolling, what is the role Team Todd plays?**

**Julianna:** The producer is the person who is usually the first and last one on a project. As the producer, Suzanne is very involved with the script, casting, crew hires, production, post-production and marketing. She works closely with the director, talent and crew to make sure everything comes together and happens on schedule and within the budget, all while keeping the integrity of the film. As the creative executive, I assist Suzanne with script notes, crew and talent outreach, and anything else she needs in order to keep the ball rolling.

**Lisa: How does it work when more than one project goes into production at the same time?**

**Julianna:** The great thing about producers is that they work on a non-exclusive basis, and because of that, can be producing multiple projects at once. Once a film or television series is up and running, it's the director or showrunner who is the main person involved in the day-to-day, while the producer is always available to help out where needed. That's why it's so important that the producer and studio have the right person in those jobs.

**Lisa: Without naming names, have you had the experience of difficult talent and how did you handle it?**

**Julianna:** I've been fortunate that all the actors and writers I've worked with have been absolute professionals. My only negative experience was with a producing/directing team who literally stole a project right from under us for which we had a verbal but not written agreement. That was the first project I brought into Team Todd and we worked on it for over six months, so it was especially heartbreaking. Now, three years later, it's still never come to life. It was sad to see something we were so passionate about, and would have made happen, end up on the shelf.

**Lisa: How does working with regular network and cable TV differ?**

**Julianna:** We mainly focus on cable because we're interested in serialized shows that can push boundaries.

**Lisa: What's the funniest thing you've ever had happen since you landed in Hollywood?**

**Julianna:** I haven't had anything too funny happen. When I was interning at Tribeca, I had to greet Sharon Stone and take her to the conference room. I was really nervous because I'm a big fan and _Casino_ is one of my favorite films. It was also the first time I had ever met a celebrity in real life. I was trying to play it cool and was almost successful, but then I got tongue-tied leaving the conference room. I asked her if I should shut or close the door, then she just laughed and I realized I said the same thing twice. Embarrassed, I said I'd just pull it to and quickly ran off.

**Lisa: What about the most surreal?**

**Julianna:** We consulted on a DLC (downloadable content) for the video game _Call of Duty_ , called _Call of the Dead_ , where George Romero's character is carted off by zombies, then Sarah Michelle Gellar, Danny Trejo, Robert Englund and Michael Rooker must destroy him. I was the talent liaison on set, and I was especially ecstatic to work with Sarah because I grew up watching her in _Buffy_ with my friends in high school. In person, she was so sweet, professional and an absolute joy to work with -- that was pretty surreal. I also got a photo with Robert ( _Freddy Krueger_ ), Danny ( _Machete_ ) and Michael ( _The Walking Dead_ ) where Robert is pretending to bite my head off so it looks like I'm about to be killed by Freddy Krueger. Now talk about cool! I have that photo and a poster for the game hanging on the wall by my desk right now.

**Lisa:** Thank you Julianna for such a great, insightful look into Hollywood, and it's an absolute honor to have Team Todd at the helm of the development of The Inside Out Series!

This was originally published by USA Today: <http://usat.ly/1xL9kLS>

Watch Lisa's casting video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pj4NZLpeWQs

##

# PART TWO

## About the series

### Series Inspiration

For eight years, my fiancé and I used to buy and sell storage units. We found all kinds of crazy things during that time: World War II love letters from a soldier to his wife, the first UFC poster ever made, a sawed-off machine gun with the serial numbers filed off, gas masks and so much more!

In one of those units my fiancé found a journal. While sick, he lay down on the couch and started reading. He became absorbed in this woman's life and began reacting to the entries out loud, exclaiming "I don't believe it! She is pregnant again," and "Something died next door and the police are involved!" From there, he suggested that I should write a sexy story about a journal found in a storage unit that leads to danger, suspense, and a whole world of trouble.

Through his prodding, I started to develop the idea for the series and got to know the characters, but it was years before I actually wrote the story. Finally, the right window opened up, and since I was already so attached to the characters, the story spilled out of me.

### The Story

How It All Started

One day I was a high school teacher on summer break, leading a relatively uneventful but happy life. Or so I told myself. Later, I'd question that, as I would question pretty much everything I knew about me, my relationships, and my desires. It all began when my neighbor thrust a key to a storage unit at me. She'd bought it to make extra money after watching some storage auction show. Now she was on her way to the airport to elope with a man she barely knew, and she needed me to clear out the unit before the lease expired.

Soon, I was standing inside a small room that held the intimate details of another woman's life, feeling uncomfortable, as if I was invading her privacy. Why had she let these items so neatly packed, possessions that she clearly cared about deeply, be lost at an auction? Driven to find out by some unnamed force, I began to dig, to discover this woman's life, and yes, read her journals---dark, erotic journals that I had no business reading. Once I started, I couldn't stop. I read on obsessively, living out fantasies through her words that I'd never dare experience on my own, compelled by the three men in her life, none of whom had names. I read onward until the last terrifying dark entry left me certain that something had happened to this woman. I had to find her and be sure she was okay.

Before long, I was taking her job for the summer at the art gallery, living her life, and she was nowhere to be found. I was becoming someone I didn't know. I was becoming her.

The dark, passion it becomes...

Now, I am working at a prestigious gallery, where I have always dreamed of being, and I've been delivered to the doorstep of several men, all of which I envision as one I've read about in the journal. But there is one man that will call to me, that will awaken me in ways I never believed possible. That man is the ruggedly sexy artist, Chris Merit, who wants to paint me. He is rich and famous, and dark in ways I shouldn't find intriguing, but I do. I so do. I don't understand why his dark side appeals to me, but the attraction between us is rich with velvety promises of satisfaction. Chris is dark, and so are his desires, but I cannot turn away. He is damaged beneath his confident good looks and need for control, and in some way, I feel he needs me. I need him.

All I know for certain is that he knows me like I don't even know me, and he says I know him. Still, I keep asking myself -- do I know him? Did he know her, the journal writer, and where is she? And why doesn't it seem to matter anymore? There is just him and me, and the burn for more.

Read the first four chapters...

#### Chapter One

_Sunday, March 7th, 2012_

_Dangerous._

_For months I've had dreams and nightmares about how perfectly he personifies the word. Sleep-laden, alternate realities where I can vividly smell his musky male scent, feel his hard body against mine. Taste the sweet and sensuous flavor of him- -like milk chocolate with its silky demand that I indulge in one more bite. And another. So good I'd forgotten there's a price for overindulgence. And there is a price. There is always a price. I was reminded of this life lesson on Saturday night. And I know now, no matter what he says, no matter what he does, I cannot--will not--see him again. _

_It started out as any other erotic adventure with him. Unpredictable. Exciting. I barely remember where it all went wrong. How it took such a dark turn._

_He'd ordered me to undress and sit on the mattress, against the headboard, my legs spread wide for his viewing. Naked before him, open to him, I was vulnerable and quivering with need. Never in my life had I taken orders from a man; most certainly I had never thought I would quiver with anything. But I did for him._

_If Saturday night proved anything, it was that once I was with him, under his spell, he could demand anything of me, and I'd comply. He could push me to the edge, to unbelievable places I'd never thought I would go. Exactly why I can't see him again. He makes me feel possessed, and what is so disconcerting about that feeling is that I like it. I can hardly wrap my mind around allowing such a thing, though I burn for it. But when I saw him standing at the end of the bed Saturday night, all broad and thick with sinewy muscle, his cock jutting forward, there was nothing but that need._

_He was magnificent. Really, truly the most gorgeous man I've ever known. Instant lust exploded inside me. I wanted to feel him close to me, to feel him touch me. To touch him. But I know now not to touch him without his permission. And I know not to beg him to let me._

_I've learned my lesson from past encounters. He enjoys the vulnerability of a plea far too much. Enjoys withholding his pleasures, until I am nearly quaking with the burn of my body. Until I am liquid heat and tears. He likes that power over me. He likes full control. I should hate him. Sometimes, I think I love him._

_It was the blindfold that should have warned me I was headed toward a place of no return. Thinking back, I believe it did. He tossed it on the bed, a dare, and instantly a shiver chased a path up and down my spine. The idea of not being able to see what was happening to me should have aroused me- -it did arouse me. But for reasons I didn't understand at the time, it also frightened me. I was scared and I hesitated. _

_This did not please him. He told me so, in that deep, rich, baritone voice that makes me quiver uncontrollably. The need to please him had been so compelling. I put on the blindfold._

_I was rewarded by the shift of the mattress. He was coming to me. Soon, I knew I would come, too. His hands slid possessively up my calves, over my thighs. And damn him, stopped just before my place of need._

_What came next was a shadowy whirlwind of sensation. He pulled me onto my back, flat against the mattress. I knew satisfaction was seconds away. Soon he would enter me. Soon I would have what I needed. But to my distress, he moved away._

_It was then that I was sure I'd heard the click of a lock. It jolted me to a sitting position, and I called out his name, fearful he was leaving. Certain that I'd done something wrong. Then relieved when his hand flattened on my stomach. I'd imagined the sound of the lock. I must have. But I couldn't shake the subtle shift in the air then, the raw lust and menace consuming the room that didn't feel like him. It was a thought easily forgotten when he settled heavy between my thighs, his strong hands lifting my arms over my head, his breath warm on my neck--his body heavy, perfect._

_Somehow, a silk tie wrapped around my wrists and my arms were tied to the bed frame. It never occurred to me that he could not have done this on his own. That he was on top of me, unable to manipulate my arms. But then, he was manipulating my body, my mind, and I was his willing victim._

_He lifted his body from mine, and I whimpered, unable to reach for him. Again silence. And the whisk of fabric. More strange sounds. Long seconds ticked by, and I remember the chill that snaked across my skin. The feeling of dread that had balled in my stomach._

_And then, the moment I know I will die remembering. The moment when the steel of a blade touched my lips. The moment that he promised there was pleasure in pain. The moment when the blade traveled along my skin with the proof he would be true to his words. And I knew then that I had been wrong. He was not dangerous. Nor was he chocolate. He was lethal, a drug, and I feared..._

A knock on my apartment door jolts me from the seductive words of the journal I've been reading to the point I darn near toss the notebook over my shoulder. Guiltily, I slam it shut and set it back on the simple oak coffee table where it had been left by my neighbor and close friend, Ella Ferguson had left itthe night before. I hadn't meant to read it. It was just...there. On my table. Absently, I'd opened it, and I'd been so shocked at what I found that I hadn't believed it could really be my sweet, close friend Ella's writing. So I'd kept reading. I couldn't stop reading and I don't know why. It makes no sense. I, Sara McMillan, am a high-school teacher, and I do not invade people's privacy, nor do I enjoy this kind of reading. I'm still telling myself that as I reach the door, but I can't ignore the burn low in my belly.

I pause before greeting my visitor, and rest my hands on my cheeks, certain they're flaming red, hoping whoever is here will just go away. I promise myself if they do, I won't read the journal again, but deep down, I know the temptation will be strong. Good Lord, I feel like Ella seemed to feel when living out the scene in the journal--like I am the one hanging on for one more titillating moment and then another. Clearly, twenty-eight-year-old women are not supposed to go eighteen months without sex. The worst part is that I've invaded the privacy of someone I care about.

Another knock sounds and I concede that, nope, my visitor is not going away. Inwardly, I shake myself and tug at the hem of the simple light blue dress I still wore from my final day of tenth-grade summer English classes. I inhale and open the door to have a cool blast of San Francisco's year-round chilly night air tease the loose strands of my long brunette hair that have fallen from the twist at my nape. Thankfully, it also cools my feverishly hot skin. What is wrong with me? How has a journal affected me this intensely?

Without awaiting an invitation, Ella rushes past me in a whiff of vanilla-scented perfume and red bouncing curls.

"There it is," Ella says, snatching up her journal from the coffee table. "I thought I'd left it here when I came by last night."

I shut the door, certain my cheeks are flaming again with the knowledge that I now know more about Ella's sex life than I should. I still don't know what made me open that journal, what made me keep reading. What makes me, even now, want to read more.

"I hadn't noticed," I say, wishing I could pull back the lie the instant it's issued. I don't like lies. I've known my share of people who've told them and I know how damaging they can be. I really don't like how easily this one slipped from my lips. This is Ella, after all, who in the past year as my neighbor, has become my confidante, the younger sister I'd never had. Together we are the family neither of us have, or rather, neither of us wish to claim. Uncomfortably, I ramble onward, a bad habit brought out by nerves, and guilt, apparently. "Long day of classes," I add, "and I had piles and piles of paperwork to finish up for the summer. Lucky you got to avoid that this year, though I had some great kids I enjoyed." I purse my lips and tell myself I've said enough, only to find I can't help but continue, "I only just got home a few minutes ago."

"Well thank goodness you have some time off now," Ella says, lifting the journal. "I brought this over last night when we'd planned to watch that chick flick together. I wanted to read you a few of the entries. But then David called, and you know how that went." Her lips tilted downward, guilt laden in her tone. "I deserted you like a very bad friend."

David being her hot doctor boyfriend. What David wanted from Ella, he got. Now, I know just how true that is. I study Ella a moment. With her dewy youthful skin, dressed in faded jeans and a purple tee, she looks like one of my students rather than a twenty-five year old teacher herself. "I was tired anyway," I assure her, but I'm worried she's over her head with this man ten years her senior. "I needed to get to bed to be ready for today's classes."

"Well they're over now and yay for that." She indicates the journal. "And I'm so glad to get this back before my date with David tonight." She wiggles an eyebrow. "Foreplay. David is going to love this. This thing is scorching hot."

I gape in utter disbelief. "You read him your journal?" I'd never have the courage to read a man such intimate personal thoughts--especially not about him. "And it's foreplay?"

Ella frowns. "This isn't my journal. Remember? I told you last night. It's from the storage units I bought at that auction at the beginning of summer."

"Oh," I say, though I don't remember Ella saying anything about the journal. In fact, had she, I'm one hundred percent sure I'd remember. "That's right. The storage auctions you've been attending since you got obsessed with that Storage Wars show. I still can't believe people store their things and then default and let it go to the highest bidder."

"And yet they do," Ella says. "And I'm not obsessed."

I arch a brow.

"Okay, maybe I am," she concedes, "but I'm going to make more than double what I would have teaching summer school. You should really consider going to the next auction with me. I've already turned two of the three units I bought around for big money." She holds up the journal. "This came from the last unit I bought and it's the best yet. It has artwork I know is going to sell for big bucks. And so far I've found three journals that are absolutely spellbinding. My gosh, I can't seem to stop reading them. This woman started out like you and I, and somehow got pulled into this dark passionate place that is terrifyingly exciting."

She's right, and I can feel that burn in my belly thinking about the words on those pages. I can almost imagine the soft, seductive voice of the woman whispering her story to me. I try to focus on what Ella is saying, but I'm wondering about that woman instead, wondering where she is, who she is.

"Oh my!" Ella exclaims. "You're blushing. You read the journal, didn't you?"

I blanch. "What? I..." Suddenly, I can't talk, and I'm not rambling a nonsensical reply I would normally spurt out. I am so not myself right now and I sink helplessly into an overstuffed brown chair across from Ella, stuck in the trap of my earlier lie. "I...yes. I read it."

Ella claims a couch cushion, narrowing her green eyes on me. "Did you think I wrote that stuff?"

I cast her a tentative look. "Well..."

"Whoa," she says, clearly taking my reply, or rather lack of reply, as confirmation. "You thought..." She shakes her head. "I'm speechless. You couldn't have read the good parts or there's no way you would think she was me. But you're sure blushing like you read the good parts."

"I read some parts that were, ah, hmm, pretty detailed."

She snorts. "And you assumed I wrote them." She shakes her head again. "And here I thought you knew me. But heck, I so wish I could live up to that assessment for just one hot night. There is a mysterious eroticism to that woman's life that's just..." She shivers. "Haunting. It, she, affects me."

In some small way it comforts me to know she is as affected by the words on those pages as I am, and I don't know why. What in the world do I need comfort for? It isn't logical. Nothing about my reaction to this unknown woman is logical.

"Once David and I finish with the journal," Ella continues, drawing me back into the conversation," "he's going to take pictures of a few intimate pages for potential buyers and we're listing the journals on eBay. They're going to bring in big money. I just know it."

I gape, appalled at this idea. "You can't seriously intend on selling this woman's personal thoughts on eBay?"

"Heck yeah, I do," she says. "Making money is the name of the game. Besides, for all we know it's all fiction."

Her words are cold and she surprises me. This is not the Ella I know. "We are talking about a woman's private thoughts, Ella. Surely, you don't want to profit off of her pain."

Her brows dip. "What pain? It sounds like all pleasure to me."

"She lost everything she owns at auction. That isn't pleasure."

"I'm guessing her rich man flew her off to some exotic location and she is living life in a grand way." Her voice turns somber. "I have to think like that to do this, Sara. Please don't make me feel guilty. This is money I need and if I didn't do this, some other buyer would have."

I open my mouth to argue, but relent. Ella is alone in this world, with no family aside from an alcoholic father who doesn't know his own name most of the time, let alone hers. I know she feels she has to have money for emergencies. I know that feeling myself all too well. I too am alone. Mostly, but I don't want to think about that right now.

"I'm sorry," I tell her and I mean it. "I know this is good for you. I'm happy it's working out."

Her lips curve slightly and she nods her acceptance before she pushes to her feet. I stand with her and give her a hug. She smiles, her mood transforming into the instant sunshine I so often find she brings into my life. I love Ella. I really do.

"David and I are looking forward to a bit of that spellbinding action ourselves tonight," she announces mischievously. "I have to run." She laughs and waves a few fingers at me. "Enjoy your night. I know I will."

I sink back into my chair and watch the door close.

The sound of pounding on my door once again takes me from bliss to panic. I sit up in the bed, disoriented and groggy, and eye the clock. Seven in the morning on my first day off from classes.

"Who the heck is pounding on my door?" I grumble, throwing the blankets off me and sliding my feet into the pink fuzzy slippers one of my students gave me last Christmas. I grab my long pink robe that is not fuzzy, but does say 'Pink' across the back. More knocking has begun.

"Sara, it's me, Ella!" I hear as I shuffle my way toward the living room. "Hurry! Hurry!"

My heart flutters because not only is Ella clearly in some sort of panic, but unlike me, who doesn't like to waste a second of any day, Ella doesn't get up before noon on days she doesn't have to. The instant I yank open the door, Ella flings her arms around me and announces, "I'm eloping!"

"Eloping?!" I gasp, pulling back and tugging Ella inside, out of the chill of the early morning. She's still wearing her clothes from the night before. "What are you talking about? What's happening?"

"David proposed last night," she exclaims excitedly. "I can hardly believe it. We're flying to Paris this morning." She eyes her watch and squeals. "In two hours."

She shoves something into my hand. "That has the key to my apartment. On the kitchen table, you'll find the journal and the key to the storage unit. If it's not cleared out in two weeks, it has to be rented, or it's auctioned off yet again. So take it and sell the stuff. The money is yours. Or let it go. Either way, it doesn't matter." She grins. "Because I'm eloping to Paris, then honeymooning in Italy!"

Protectiveness fills me for Ella. I don't want her to get hurt and I've never even heard her say she loves David. "You've only known this man for three months, sweetie. I've only met him once." He always, conveniently, got called away when we'd been planning to get together.

"I love him, Sara," she says, as if reading my mind. "And he's good to me. You know that."

No, I don't know that, but while I try to find the right way to say it, she is already reaching for the door. "Ella-"

"I'll call you when I arrive in Paris, so keep your cell handy."

"Wait!" I say, shackling her arm. "How long will you be gone?"

Her eyes light up with excitement. "A month. Can you believe it? A whole month in Italy. I'm living a dream." She hugs me and gives me a kiss on the cheek. "I'll call and when we get back we'll have a reception." Her eyes soften. "You know I wanted you with me for this, don't you? But David knew I had no family. He wanted to whisk me away so that it wouldn't be painful." She pokes at the tuckered spot that always appears between my brows when I frown. "Stop making that face. It'll be wrinkled when you get older. And I'm fine. I'm perfect, in fact."

"You better be," I say, attempting my best teacher voice, but my throat is too tight to do much more than croak out the warning. "Call me as soon as you arrive so I know you're safe, and I want pictures. Lots of pictures."

Ella smiles brightly, "Yes, Ms. McMillan." She turns and rushes away, giving me a last-second wave over her shoulder before she rounds the corner. She is gone, and I am fighting unexpected tears I don't even understand. I am happy for Ella but worried for her, too. I feel...I'm not sure what I feel. Lost, maybe. My fingers curl around her keys, and I am suddenly aware that I have just inherited a storage unit and the journals I swore I wouldn't read again.

#### Chapter Two

_And then, the moment I know I will die remembering. The moment when the steel of a blade touched my lips. The moment that he promised there was pleasure in pain..._

Those words written in the journal replay in my head early the next evening, the same day of Ella's rapid departure. They haunt me to the point I feel downright icy every time I think of them. They are why I'm here, standing inside a temperature-controlled storage unit the size of a small garage, that at some point I assume the journal writer leased. Thankfully there is a dim light and the neighborhood is good. I stand here, unsure of what to look at first, uneasy about digging through a stranger's things.

_...the moment he promised there was pleasure in pain._

Unbidden, the words replay in my head again. I shiver, and not just because the journal is explicitly arousing. I shouldn't be aroused. Not by painful pleasure and bondage. I refuse to be aroused. I am worried about this mysterious woman. Besides, I am my father's daughter, just as my mother had been my father's wife, which translated to his puppets who didn't dare walk in the same shadows he did. My mother had escaped him in death, and I'd chosen to leave him out of my life since. Despite five years without him, I remain all too aware that the lingering effects of his heavy hand are far too present in my life.

I grind my teeth at the memories. I have no idea how my mind has gone to places I try never to go. Forcefully, I refocus on the neatly stacked furniture and boxes lining the walls, as well as what looks like well-packaged artwork. A life left behind, forgotten. Who did that? Who left things that they'd clearly cared about enough to neatly pack and organize them, behind? I'm not buying the idea that some rich boyfriend had whisked this woman away to some exotic life. No one who hadn't seen bad luck, or maybe even tragedy, did this. I'm not about to be a part of adding to this woman's troubles by selling off her things. Not this woman, I corrected myself. Rebecca Mason is her name. That's what the paperwork said, and as per the management they couldn't give me her phone number and 'it's disconnected anyway'.

"I'm going to find a way to contact you, and return your things," I whisper to the room, as if I'm speaking to Rebecca, and a chill races down my spine. I feel like she is here, like I'm talking to her and it's downright creepy. Somehow, it makes me more determined to find her.

I sigh with grim realization at what my vow means. I have to invade her privacy and dig through her things to find a way to contact her, a way to return what was left of her life. If she's alive, I think grimly, hugging myself.

"Stop it," I murmur, chiding myself. The Grim Reaper mentality isn't me. I don't even like horror movies. The world has enough real monsters without creating fictional monsters.

There really could be a happy reason Rebecca left her life behind. Winning the lotto. There. Yes. There was a good reason to leave all your things behind. Unlikely, but still possible. Ten million to one or so, I imagine, but possible. So why does the idea do absolutely nothing to dismiss the eerie, hollow feeling of the room?

Eager to get this over with, I drop my purse to the ground and run my hands down my soft, faded jeans, scanning the items around me until my gaze catches on a box neatly labeled "personal papers". Seems a good place to find contact information, if I ever saw one.

Two hours later I am sitting against a wall, thumbing through information I have no business seeing. School records, bills, legal paperwork that amounted to pennies of inheritance from the death of Rebecca's mother and last living relative, three years before. I think of my own mother, of the woman who'd tried so hard to shelter me from my father, but would never do anything to shelter herself. I squeeze my eyes shut, wondering if the pain of losing her will ever go away. If it will ever go away. She'd been my best friend, my closest confidante. I wonder if Rebecca was close to her mother, as I was mine? If she'd hurt as I did with my loss, as I still do.

With effort, I refocus on the paperwork, and realize I'm not going to find any family connections to reach Rebecca. But thankfully, the mail and a bunch of bank statements have, at least, given me her address though I'm not overly certain it will be accurate.

Feeling not much closer to finding Rebecca, I shove everything back in the box and stand up, feeling stiff and cramped in a way that defies my morning jogs.

"Try the dresser," comes a male voice from behind me.

I yelp and whirl around to find a man wearing a staff shirt standing in the doorway. The hair on the back of my neck prickles, my nerve endings humming with warning. He is a handsome man in his mid-thirties---blond, clean shaven, with short, spiky hair, but it's the dark interest in his deep-set eyes that sets me on edge. The already small room seems to shrink and close in on me, that eerie feeling I've been unable to shake no longer hollow but focused on me, like an invisible weight on my shoulders and chest.

"Dresser?" I manage to croak despite the dryness in my throat.

"Everyone has a secret bedroom drawer," he says. His voice lowers, takes on a husky quality. "A place almost as personal as their soul."

I stiffen, a new rush of discomfort slicing through me. He's been in here. I knew it with every piece of my being. He'd gone through Rebecca's things. He knew what was in that drawer. I don't like this man, and I'm suddenly immensely aware of the fact that I am alone with him, miles from the highway, not another customer anywhere near--at least not that I've seen or heard thus far.

"I don't want to know her secrets," I say firmly, keeping my voice remarkably steady considering my knees are wobbly. "I want to find her and return her things to her."

He studies me a long moment, his gaze as sharp as the slice of discomfort digging deeper inside me. Then finally, when I am about to choke on the silence, he says, "Like I said. Check the drawer." His lips hint at a sardonic smile, and he pushes off the doorjamb. "I'll be back to lock the exterior building at nine. You won't want to be inside when I do." Without another word, he is gone.

I don't move. I can't move. I want to slam the door shut but don't dare, not when it locks from the outside, a thought that terrifies me. Seconds tick by and I wait as the man's footsteps fade away into the distance. Away. Yes. Away. I have to get away from this place. I rush to the glossy mahogany dresser against the wall and yank open the top right drawer. Empty. I try the left. God, my heart is in my throat, threatening to choke me. I have to stop and force myself to inhale, and slowly exhale. I am shaking and irrationally frightened. I count to thirty and I can breathe again. I'm okay. Everything is okay. I open the left drawer and the breath I'd finally found again hitches at the contents. A black, twelve-by-eight, velvet box with a lock. A red silk scarf. Three red leather-bound journals.

My teeth worry my bottom lip. I dart a look toward the hallway and then back to the drawer. I am intrigued despite my nerves, but afraid the creepy man will return.

I quickly refocus on the drawer, and search for a key to the box, telling myself there might be contact information inside. That I am not caving to carnal curiosity. I flip open each of the journals, shake them for loose papers, for a key. A brochure falls from inside one of them, and I start to shove it aside, exposing several more brochures in the process.

I pick one of them up and read "Allure Art Gallery," San Francisco. They are all Allure brochures. Allure is the largest, most prestigious gallery among San Francisco's many. I remember Ella mentioning art she'd found in the unit. It appears that despite our vastly different love lives, Rebecca and I share a common thread in our interest in art. I love everything about art, from the history to the creative process. There was a time when I might have cut off my right arm to work in the art world. It's what I went to school for, what I'd dreamt of. A dream I'd given up years ago when life, bills, and responsibilities took precedence.

A loud crash sounds somewhere outside, and I nearly jump out of my own skin. My hand balls on my chest, willing my heart not to jump right through it. Thunder. The sound had been thunder. It is about to storm. Another loud rumble radiates through the walls, echoing as if I am in a cave--almost like an omen of warning telling me to hurry the heck up. Oh good grief, my imagination is running wild, but I won't ignore this feeling of unease.

I grab my purse, stack the journals in my arms, which I justify taking because they are my only hope of finding a clue to Rebecca's recent whereabouts. I am about to exit the room, but I hesitate for a moment before turning back and rushing to the dresser to retrieve the box. My hands are still shaking as I manage to juggle the items I'm holding and attach the lock to the storage unit.

Quickly, I head down a narrow, dimly lit hallway, past rows of locked units like the one I've just left. I feel like I am Alice in Wonderland about to be sucked down the rabbit hole. I exit the garage-style main doorway to find a now dark parking lot made darker by the brewing storm. How has time gotten away from me so quickly?

I fall into a half run, half walk, in stealthy silence thanks to my light blue, Nike cross trainers, closing the distance between myself and my silver Ford Focus. My keys are still in my purse, and I don't know why I haven't pulled them out before now. I set the items I'm holding on top of the hood with the intent of digging in my purse and manage to drop one of the journals. I reach for it and drop another.

"Dang it," I mumble and squat, scooping them up, but the hair stands up on my neck again, and despite the cold droplets of water smacking my forehead, I don't stand. My gaze shifts to a shadow near the open garage door, and I search to find no one there. I jerk myself upright, stomach lurching. Get in the car. Get in the car. Why are you outside the car?

Hands shaking now, I dig out my keys, and curse the out-of-character paranoia I can't escape. I yank open the car door and throw my purse inside, get in, the journals and the box awkwardly on my lap. I can't lock the door fast enough. A heavy breath escapes me at the sound of the clicks that seal me inside and I haphazardly stack the journals and box in the passenger seat.

I'm about to start the engine when a trickle of awareness draws my gaze to the side of the building I'd just exited, and I gasp. Standing in the shadows, beneath a slim awning, one leg propped against the wall, is the man who'd visited me a few minutes before. Watching me.

I turn on the engine and say a silent prayer of thank you when it starts. I can't get out of here fast enough.

I'm halfway home when the storm explodes on the city in a fury of pounding rain and vivid lightning, no doubt the reason why, despite it being Friday night, there isn't a nearby parking spot at my apartment complex. Thankful that a boatload of schoolwork to grade had motivated me to buy a purse the size of a small suitcase, I cram the box and the journals inside to protect them from the downpour. A wet run later, with water dripping from my hair and clothes, I flip the lights on in my apartment. I can't shut the door and lock it any faster than I could get away from that storage facility.

Maybe my imagination is running away with me over the mystery of Rebecca Mason, but I feel like I am being stalked. That man back at the storage unit gave me the creeps. I shiver just thinking about him. Well, that and I'm dripping wet and despite the fact that it's August, it's a chilly fifty-one degrees outside according to the radio announcer.

Water is puddling at my feet, and I quickly pull the box and the journals from my drenched purse, setting them on the dry carpet before stripping right there in the entryway. My tan carpet is a dirt magnet but renting means you take what you can get. I start for the bathroom and hesitate, backtracking to grab my cell phone because it just makes me feel better to have it in hand, but I tell myself it's to call Ella. I start a hot bath and dial her number, hoping she might know where to find Rebecca, and to hear she is safe and happy. Her phone rings with a fast busy signal that tells me that she was out of service range, but I still feel worried. I am one big ball of nerves and it's making me insane.

Forty-five minutes later, freshly showered and dressed in pink boxers and a matching tee, my hair soft and dry and smelling like my favorite rose-scented shampoo, I am chiding myself for being so paranoid. I head to the fridge for my answer to all troubles---a pint of Ben and Jerry's Boston Cream Pie ice cream.

My gaze slides to Rebecca's personal items still sitting by the door with my discarded clothes. I should have stayed at the storage unit until I found her information. Now, I have no choice but to seek what I need in between the pages of those journals. Or in the box...that I can't open. I'm not even sure why I'd brought it with me.

A few minutes later, I sit down on the couch with my good friends Ben and Jerry, the stack of journals, and the box on the coffee table. The box that I still see no way to open without potentially damaging it.

With no other option, I reach for a journal and flip it open. In delicate female writing, it reads 2010 . No month. I wonder if this was written before, or after, the journal Ella had left in my apartment last night.

Thumbing through pages, I try to scan for words that might relate to a place of employment and catch little pieces of Rebecca's life along the way. The night was hot and my body thirsty. I inhale and turn the page at the clear indication of something far more private than a place of work. This woman wrote with such flowery, exotic words. Who writes like that? My life changed the day I walked into the art gallery. Okay, that has my attention for the right reason. The gallery is clearly where I need to look for Rebecca. But did she work there or shop there? Or maybe she was an artist?

I keep reading, looking for my answers. I've changed. It's changed me. This world has changed me. He says he's simply helped me uncover the real me. I don't even know who the real me is any more.

"He who?" I whisper at the text.

The places I go now, both emotionally and physically, are dark, dangerous places. I know this, yet where he leads--where they lead - I follow.

I frown, thinking of the journal entry of the night before, how I'd read that someone had entered the room while Rebecca had been blindfolded to the bed.

How can fear be arousing? How can fear make me need and burn and want? But yet I want, I need, I dare things I never believed I was capable of doing. Is this the real me? That idea scares me deep down into my core. This can't be me. I am not this person. But even more than that fear that I am, indeed, someone I do not recognize, I fear the idea of not being that person. Of going back to the past. Of once again being the good girl with a boring life, pushing paper in an eight-to-five job. Never happy, never satisfied. At least now I feel something. The rush of fear is far better than the defeat of boredom. The high of not knowing what comes next, so much better than always knowing one day will be like the last. Never anticipation, never feeling anything. No. I cannot go back. So why am I so terrified of going forward?

Thunder rolls overhead, jolting me momentarily from my absorption. Glancing at the window where rain is pattering on the glass, I absentlycurl up into the corner of the couch, thinking about what I've just read. I am so different from this woman writing the journals, yet I have an odd connection with her words. I love the kids I teach, but I feel the ache of encouraging them to follow their dreams and knowing I haven't followed mine. Knowing my words to them are hypocritical. I understand what it feels like to have each day pass, knowing I'm no closer to my dreams. Jobs in the art world are just so few and far apart, and pay so little, that I cannot justify my passion as my job.

A heavy breath of regret trickles from my lips, and my gaze returns to the page. I am lost in a world that isn't mine and never can be, but somehow, right now, it is.

Three hours later, the rain has calmed to a drizzle, and I am no longer lounging on the couch. Somewhere along the way, I've read all three journals, which have gone from erotic and thrilling to downright frightening. I'm sitting up now, hanging on the words of the final entry.

I want out. This is no longer a rush anymore. No longer exciting. But he won't let me out. He won't let me go. And I don't know how to escape him. He was at the showing tonight, watching me, stalking me. I wanted to run. I wanted to hide. But I didn't. I couldn't. One minute I was talking to a customer, the next I was in a dark corner with him buried deep inside me. When it was over, he stroked my hair and promised to see me later. Tonight. The minute I was alone, I rushed to the camera room to take the tape, to keep him from possessing it, and me with it. But it was gone. He'd taken it before I could. And now...

That was it. Nothing more. As if she'd been interrupted by something or someone and quit writing. I stare at the blank page, my heart thundering in my chest. Were these journals before or after the one I'd been reading the night before, I wonder again? Because if they were before, I would know Rebecca was okay. I dial Ella and once again am greeted by the fast busy signal I don't want to hear.

Frustrated, I jump to my feet and pace, wringing fingers through my already tousled hair. Rebecca Mason must have left town, that's why her things were in that storage unit. But why hadn't she come back for them? Or paid the storage fee? I ball my fists at my sides and then slowly force them to open, force my shoulders to relax. I will myself to calm down with logic. There is no reason to jump to conclusions. I'll simply call the gallery and locate Rebecca, discover all is well, and return Rebecca's things to her. End of story. Right. Perfect. Then I'll get on with my summer tutoring.

I snatch my phone off the coffee table, intending to make that call and immediately stop myself. It's after midnight and I've tried to call Ella with no idea what time it is in Paris, and now I am trying to call the art gallery. So much for calm and collected.

Something about Rebecca Mason has reached past the pages of that journal and become personal. I'd become Rebecca while I was reading those journals. I feel a connection so intimate to this stranger that it is downright eerie. Or maybe, I think wryly, my own life is just so darn boring I'm desperate for a little excitement. Like Rebecca had been, before she met him.

With that thought, I hug myself, and head for bed. But not before I grab the journals and take them with me.

#### Chapter Three

"Rebecca isn't in."

That is the same reply the man who always answers the phone at the gallery had given me the last time I'd called. And the time before that.

"She's on vacation," I reply. "So I've been told all week. It's Friday. Will she be back Monday?"

Silence filters into the line. "I can take a message."

I'd already left several and I see no point in leaving another. "No. Thank you." I hang up and sip my vanilla latte from the Barnes and Noble café where I'd just finished tutoring a football player hoping to impress colleges with more than his playing skills. This entire Rebecca situation is driving me nuts.

I've already double-checked the time I have left to clear out the storage unit, considering Ella hadn't exactly been a wealth of information, and it is a short window--one more week. After that, it would be two hundred dollars for another full month. A hard blow to my cash flow on an already tight budget. The manager has given me one extra week free for which I am grateful, but I have to deal with Rebecca and do it now.

With my laptop already open and powered up, I key in the Allure Gallery website, intending to search the staff listing to be sure Rebecca's name still appears. Sure enough, Rebecca is listed as Marketing Director. Hmm. Well, that's good. That has to be a sign she's okay. Doesn't it?

An event banner on the side of the page catches my eye and I click on it. There's a showing at the gallery the following Wednesday night and not for some unknown artist either. A thrill goes through me at the realization that the highly acclaimed artist, Ricco Alvarez, is doing a showing. I adore Ricco Alvarez's depiction of his homeland Mexico, and though it's rather well known in an artsy city like San Fran that someone of his stature owns a home here, he rarely makes appearances. But then, this is a good cause, a black-tie charity event with both ticket prices, and a piece of Alvarez's art, being auctioned off as donations to a local children's hospital. Surely, with such an event, Rebecca will be at the helm.

Tapping my nails on the wooden table, I consider my options. If I can't reach Rebecca before the show, I'll attend the event. Silently, I laugh at myself. Who am I kidding? I'm going to see Ricco Alvarez, even if I have to eat Ramen noodles for two weeks to do so, and since the tickets are a hundred dollars a pop, I will. But I never, ever splurge. I bite my bottom lip and fret, and then before I can stop myself, click on the "buy tickets" button and claim one of the last available tickets. I won't be able to get a refund if I reach Rebecca before then, but I'll just have to rough it. I can't stop the smile from sliding onto my lips. It will be torture to have to meet Ricco Alvarez. I feel better with a plan. Now, if I can just get through to Ella and hear she is okay, I might actually sleep tonight.

Wednesday evening arrives and Rebecca is still "not in" per the Allure staff. So, I am off to the Alvarez event, but my excitement over the showing has been doused quite effectively by the feeling something is really wrong. The entire situation makes me anxious, and while I would have preferred some moral support, as in a friend to join me at the night's event, I had dismissed the idea. I wasn't about to try and explain why I was hunting down Rebecca Mason, whom I didn't know, and who I feared had met an untimely...something. I'm not going to even let my mind elaborate on that thought. And I won't justify my worry by letting anyone else read Rebecca's private thoughts.

I pull my car into a parking spot several blocks away from the gallery, by both necessity and preference. The chilly evening wind lifts off the nearby ocean, blowing loose strands of my long hair astray with it. Goosebumps form on my arms and I gather my cream-colored shawl over my matching simple but elegant knee-length sheath dress. Okay, Ella's dress and shawl actually, but we were always borrowing each other's clothes. As a formality, I'd have asked if she minded, but I still can't get her phone to ring through. I click my lock into place and slide my keys into the dainty, cream-colored shoulder purse that I'd bought on the pier last summer.

I inhale the air, embracing the sounds and sights, the action of the SoMa Art District, bustling with people enjoying the stores, museums, and array of art galleries. I don't come down here often. I just can't. It reminds me of those dreams I've never chased. It's been too long though, I realize, nearly a year since I've enjoyed the market street scene. The architecture, ranging from newly developed shiny glass structures to old warehouses converted into home and work spaces, was as much art as the sculptures and drawings on the concrete walls of the random buildings. I feel something special here. I feel alive here. It's what I feel when I leave that I dislike.

Bringing the gallery into view, I pause to watch a group of elegantly dressed visitors pour through its double glass doors lined in shiny silver for the black-tie affair. Artsy swirls of red letters, displayed above the entry, spell "ALLURE."

Nerves flutter in my stomach, though I can't say why. I love the contemporary art Allure specializes in, love their mix of local, new artists who I can discover, as well as the established names whose work I already appreciate. Nerves are ridiculous. I'm uncomfortable in this world, but then, this isn't my world. It's Rebecca's, and Rebecca is the real reason I'm here.

A glance at my dainty, handmade, gold wristwatch, also bought at the pier, confirms I have plenty of time to spare. It is seven forty-five, fifteen minutes until Alvarez will be unveiling a new painting that will be displayed in the gallery and up for silent auction through the end of the week. Oh how I'd love to have an Alvarez original, but they don't come cheap. Still, a girl can dream.

Excitement filters in with nerves as I rush toward the door. A young brunette woman in a simple black dress holds it open for me and offers me a smile. "Welcome."

I return the smile and enter the gallery, noting the nervous energy bouncing off the twenty-something girl as I pass, an energy that seems to scream "I'm new and don't know what I am doing." This isn't Rebecca, who I know will be daringly bold and confident. In fact, the hostess brings out the schoolteacher in me, and I fight the urge to give her a hug and tell her she's doing fine. I'm a hugger. I got it from my mother, just like I did my love of art, only I wasn't talented with a brush as she had been.

The girl is saved from my mothering when the sound of a piano playing from a distant corner filters through the air and draws my attention to the main showroom. I am in awe. This isn't my first time visiting the four-thousand-square-foot wonder that is the Allure gallery, but it doesn't diminish my excitement at seeing it again.

The entryway opens to the main showroom of glistening white wonder. The walls are snow white, the floor glistening like white diamonds. The shiny divider walls curve like abstract waves, and each of them is adorned with contrasting, eye popping, colorful artwork.

I turn away from the showroom, attending to business before pleasure, and present my ticket to a hostess behind a podium. She is tall and elegant with long, raven hair. "Rebecca?" I ask hopefully.

"No, sorry," she says. "I'm Tesse." She holds up a finger as she glances through the glass doors at an approaching customer she needs to attend. I wait patiently, hoping this young woman can connect me with Rebecca. I listen attentively while she directs the new guest to a short stairway that leads toward the music, and apparently, the location where Ricco Alvarez will be unveiling his masterpiece.

"Sorry for the interruption," Tesse finally says, giving me her full attention. "You were looking for Rebecca. Unfortunately she isn't attending tonight's event. Is there something I can help you with?"

Disappointment fills me. To miss an Alvarez event is not something someone in Rebecca's role would likely do. I just want to know, for certain, that Rebecca is safe. Painting myself as a stranger doesn't seem the way to do that. "My sister's an old friend of Rebecca's. She told me to be sure and say hello to her and pass along her new phone number. She seemed to think Rebecca worked big events like this one. She'll be disappointed I missed her."

"Oh, I hate that you missed her," Tesse says, looking genuinely concerned. "I'm not only new, I only work part time, on an as-needed basis, so I don't hear much of what's going on internally, but I think Rebecca took some personal time off. Mark would know for certain."

"Mark?"

"The manager here," she says. "He'll be tied up with the presentation soon, but I can introduce you to him afterwards if you like?"

I nod. "Yes. Please. That would be perfect."

The piano stops abruptly. "They're about to start," Tesse informs me. "You should grab a seat while you still can. I'll be sure to help you connect with Mark after the presentation."

A thrill shoots through me. "Thank you so much," I say, before I head toward the seating area. I can't believe that I am about to see an Alvarez original presented by Alvarez himself.

A tuxedo-clad usher greets me at the bottom of the stairs and offers me some help finding a seat. And boy did I need help. There were at least two hundred chairs lined up in front of a mini stage, set in front of a bay window that was essentially the entire wall, and almost every single chair was taken.

I squeeze into a center row, between a man that has artsy rebel, written all over him from longish light-blond hair to his jeans and a blazer, and a fifty-something woman who is more than a little irritated to have to let me pass. I can't help but notice the man is incredibly good looking and I've never been one to be easily impressed. I know too well that beauty is too often only skin deep.

"You're late," the man says as if he knows me, a friendly smile touching his lips, his green eyes crinkling at the edges, mischief in their depths. I figure him to be about thirty-five. No. Thirty-three. I am good with ages, and good at reading people. My kids at school often found that out when they were up to no good.

I smile back at the man, feeling instantly comfortable with him when, aside from my students, I'm normally quite reserved with strangers. "And you forgot to pick up your tux, I see," I tease. In fact, I wonder how he pulled off getting in here dressed as he is.

He runs his hand over his sandy blond, one-day stubble that bordered on two days. "At least I shaved."

My smile widens and I intend to reply but a screech from a microphone fills the air. A man I recognize from photos as Ricco Alvarez claims the stage and stands next to the sheet covering a display, no doubt his newest masterpiece. Suave and James-Bond-esque in his tuxedo, he is the polar opposite of the man next to me.

"Welcome one and all," he says in a voice richly accented with Hispanic heritage, as is his work. "I am Ricco Alvarez, and I thank you for sharing my love of art, and children, on this grand evening. And so I give you what I call Chiquitos, or in English, Little Ones."

He tears away the sheet, and everyone gasps at the unexpected piece of art that is nothing like anything he's done before. Rather than a landscape, it is a portrait of three children, all of different nationalities, holding hands. It is a well-executed work appropriate for the occasion, though secretly, I had wished for a landscape where his brilliance shone.

The man next to me leans an elbow on his knee and lowers his voice. "What do you think?"

"It's perfect for the evening," I say cautiously.

"Oh so diplomatic," he says with a low chuckle. "You wanted a landscape."

"He does beautiful landscapes," I say defensively.

He grins. "He should have done a landscape."

"And now," Ricco announces, "while the bidding begins, I'll be circulating the room, answering questions about my many works displayed tonight, and hoping to have the pleasure of meeting as many of you as possible. Please feel free to walk to the stage for a closer look at Chiquitos."

Almost instantly, the crowd is standing.

"Are you going for a close-up?" I ask the man next to me.

"Not much on crowds," he said. "Nor Ricco's attempt at portraiture." He winks at me. "Don't stroke his ego when you meet him. It's big enough as it is." He starts moving down the row toward the exit. I stare after him, feeling this odd flutter in my stomach at his departure, curious about who he is.

I frown as I repeat part of our conversation in my mind. Ricco. He'd called Ricco Alvarez 'Ricco' and spoken of his ego as if he knew him. It's too late now to find out how he knows Ricco, and portrait or not, I am eager for an up-close look at the featured painting. I have not met Ricco and it is disappointing, but I am still thrilled at the opportunity to see his work.

Sometime later, I am enjoying a lingering walk through the gallery, exploring the full Alvarez collection on display, when I spot a display for Chris Merit, whose work I studied in college. He too had once been a local, but I seem to remember him moving to Paris. Excitedly, I head toward his work. His specialties are urban landscapes---mostly of San Francisco, both past and present---and portraits of real subjects with such depth and soul they steal my breath away.

I join an elderly couple inside the small room, where they debate over which of several landscapes to purchase. Unable to stop myself, I join in. "I think you should take them all."

The man scoffs. "Don't go giving her ideas or you'll both put me in the poorhouse. She gets one for above the fireplace."

"Stingy man," the gray-haired woman says, shoving his arm playfully and then eying me. "So tell me, honey." She motions between two pictures. "Which do you think is a better conversation piece, of these two?"

I study the two choices, both black-and-white, though Merit often uses color. One is a downtown shot of San Francisco in the midst of hurricane-like weather. The other is of the Golden Gate Bridge shrouded in clouds, the skyline of the city peeking out from behind it.

"A tough choice," I say thoughtfully. "Both have a bit of a dark edgy feel to them, and both have the 'wow' factor." I indicate the stormy downtown scene. "I happen to know that one depicts the impact Hurricane Nora had on the city back in 1997. To me, that makes for a conversation piece, and a little bit of history to boot, right there in your living room."

"You are so right, dear," the woman says, her eyes lighting up. "This is the one." She casts her husband an expectant look. "It's perfect. I have to have it."

"Then have it you shall," her husband declares.

I smile at the woman's joy, but not without a bit of art envy. I would love to be going home with the piece she will be tonight.

"I understand you had a question for me," a male voice says, pulling my attention toward the display entryway where a man with neatly trimmed blond hair stands. He is tall and confident, an air of ownership about him. And his eyes--they are the most unique silvery gray I've ever seen.

"I'm Mark Compton," he says, "the gallery manager. And it looks like I owe you more than an answer to whatever your question is. It appears I need to thank you for assisting my customers." He glances at the couple. "I take it you've made a selection?"

"Indeed we have," the husband says, clearly pleased to have his wife make a decision. "We'd like to take it home with us tonight if possible."

"Excellent," he says. "If you'll give me a moment, I'll have it packaged for you."

He motions for me to walk with him, and I shake my head. "I'm in no rush. Help them with their purchase, and you can find me later."

He studies me a bit too intently, those silvery eyes of his rich with interest, and I am suddenly self-conscious. He is, without a doubt, classically handsome by anyone's standards, but there is also something raw and sexual about this man, something almost predatory about him.

"All right then," he says softly, "I'll find you soon." It isn't a statement that alludes to a double meaning, but yet, I feel one there. His gaze shifts to the couple. "Let's go ring you up."

The couple thank me for my help and hurries after Mark. The minute they are gone, the minute Mark Compton is out of sight, I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding and shake myself inwardly. And not just because of the way his eyes had assessed me so...so what? Intimately? Surely not. I still have this over-active imagination thing going on over the journals. I do wonder if he is the "he" from the journals. He certainly has the animal magnetism Rebecca's words painted him with. But then, so does Ricco Alvarez. Good grief, I'm making myself crazy.

A staff member interrupts me before I can go on another "crazy" thinking spree, and removes the couple's purchase from the display. I force myself to stop over-analyzing and relax, basking in the solitude as I discover Chris Merit's newest work.

"You like Merit?" comes another male voice, this one familiar.

I turn to find the man who'd sat next to me during the presentation standing in the doorway. I give a quick, eager nod. "Very much. I wish they had some of his portraits, but his urban landscapes are magnificent. You?"

He leans against the wall. "I hear he doesn't have an overinflated ego. That scores points with me."

I tilt my head and study him, relaxing into the easy conversation. "Why are you here if you don't like Ricco?"

Mark Compton appears in the doorway. "I see you didn't venture far," he says to me and then eyes the other man. "Don't tell me you're pimping your own work at Ricco's event?" He glances at me. "Was he pimping his own work?"

I gape. "Wait. His own work?" I shift my gaze to my nameless new friend, who looks nothing like the Chris Merit I've seen photos of. "Who are you exactly?"

His mouth quirks at the edges. "The man with the one red shoe." And with that, he turns and walks away.

I shake my head. "What? What does that mean?" I turn to Mark. "What does that mean? The man with the one red shoe?"

"Who knows," Mark says, his lips thinning in disapproval. "Chris has a twisted sense of humor. Thankfully, it doesn't show up on the canvas."

My jaw goes slack. "Wait. Are you telling me that was Chris Merit?" I rack my brain over the pictures of him I've seen and I remember him differently. Do I have his image confused with another?

"That's Chris," he confirms. "And as you can see he has an odd way about him. He was standing in his own display room and didn't even tell you who he was." His hands settle on his hips. "Listen, Tesse tells me you...I'm sorry, I didn't get your name?"

"Sara," I supply. "Sara McMillan."

"Sara," he repeats, his tone low, as if he was trying it out on his tongue, trying me out on his tongue. Seconds pass, and the small display area seems to get smaller before he adds, "Tesse was right. Rebecca is on a leave of absence."

His tone shifts back to all business now, and I wonder if I imagine the raspier tone. I am, after all, excelling at making myself crazy. "I see," I say. "Is there a way to reach her?"

"If you figure out a way, let me know," he says. "She took a two-week cruise with some rich guy she was dating and that turned into the entire summer. I agreed because she's good at her job and the clients love her. But depending on interns who don't know what they're doing is killing me. I'm going to have to get someone in here to cover for her that actually knows what they are doing."

"The entire summer," I repeat uncomfortably, focused on the oddity that represents. All summer was a long time for a working girl to leave her job behind. And Mark's comment about the "rich guy" hit me just as wrong for some reason, though it could have been merely his frustration over Rebecca's extended leave. Or maybe...could he be jealous over this rich man? My brows dip. "Leaving you high and dry like this--that doesn't sound like the responsible Rebecca my sister described."

"People aren't always what they seem," he says and motions toward Chris Merit's displayed art. "The art does not always mimic the artist. You never know the real person until you slide beneath their surface."

Or look in their dresser drawer, I think guiltily. But Rebecca didn't seem like someone to run out on her job to me. She loved her job. Then again, I might be wrong. As seduced as Rebecca had been by this world she'd created, she'd been scared too. And I want to know why more than ever. What created such obsession, such fear?

A sudden burn for answers, a need to leave here tonight with something more than I came with overcomes me, and before I can stop myself, I blurt, "I can cover Rebecca for the summer. I'm a teacher so I'm on break. I have a Master's of Art from The Art Institute, and a Bachelor's in business. I interned for three years at the Museum of Modern Art and I know art. All art. Test me if you like."

His eyes narrow a fraction, the silence crackling between us for several long seconds. "You're hired, Sara McMillan. You can start tomorrow. I'll let you enjoy the rest of your evening." He lowers his voice. "Tomorrow, you're all mine." He turns and walks away.

I blink, stunned. He'd just hired me, but he hadn't even asked me one single question. I hadn't asked about hours or pay. I inhale a sharp breath. I'd come here to find Rebecca, to make sure she is alive and well. Instead, I am about to be Rebecca, or rather, be the Marketing Director for the gallery. So I can find Rebecca, I tell myself. Something has happened to Rebecca, and I have to prove it. That's why I'm here. No other reason.

#### Chapter Four

I am still standing in the middle of Chris Merit's display, in stunned disbelief, when something snaps inside me. I am hot and confused and feeling like the world is spinning around me. I've spent money I don't have on the ticket for the night, but I can't get out of this gallery fast enough. I run for the door, not literally, but I might as well be. This heat I feel is unexplainable, considering the gallery is chilly, and I need air desperately. I need to think. I need to figure out what is going on inside me, because it is nothing I know as familiar.

Exiting to the street, I welcome the cool night air washing over me. I turn quickly to my left and intend to head for my car, when the strap of my purse catches and snags on the brick of the building and somehow it snaps open. The contents spill to the ground. With exasperation, I squat, trying to retrieve my items. This is so my life and there is a tiny part of me comforted by my familiar clumsiness, by something that feels like me. I mean, who else, can manage to catch their purse on a wall of all things?

"Need some help?"

My gaze shoots upward to find Chris Merit at eye level and for a rare moment in time, I can't find the words to ramble with my nerves. While I'd felt comfortable with him inside the gallery, I am dumbstruck now that I know who he is. He is brilliant. He is also incredibly good looking, and squatting down on the ground with me, which somehow feels wrong. This night has me feeling as if I am in the twilight zone. There is no other explanation for how bizarre it is.

"I...ah...no," I manage. "Thank you. I got it. It's a little purse. Doesn't hold much." I scoop up my lipstick and a tiny wallet, and slide them back inside the bag, before pushing to my feet.

He grabs my keys and stands, towering over my five feet four inches by a good foot. I hadn't realized how tall he was when he'd been sitting beside me at the Ricco event, or how earthy and deliciously male he smells, but the wind lifts and the scent tickles my nose. He is different from Mark, not so sophisticated and debonair, more raw, and yes, like his scent, earthy.

He gives me another one of those devastating smiles he'd used on me in the gallery and dangles my keys in the air. "You might need these to go wherever you're going so fast."

"Thank you," I say and accept them. His fingers brush mine and electricity charges up my arm, across my chest, and steals my breath. My eyes meet his, and I see awareness in the deep green depths of his stare. Only, I'm not sure if it's the same kind of awareness I feel. Maybe, it's simply that I hide my feelings horribly and he now knows I'm reacting to him, and it amuses him.

"You're leaving early," he comments, his hands going to his hips, which pushes back his blazer enough for me to see the stretch of his black t-shirt across his impressive chest. I approve, as I'm sure the rest of the female population does as well.

"Yes," I say and jerk my attention to his face, to a full mouth that has me a bit breathless, but then everything has me breathless tonight, it seems. "I need to get home."

"Why don't I walk you to your car?"

He wants to walk me to my car. I'm not sure why he would want to do that. He doesn't even know me. Is it possible that he felt that same electricity I did, or do I amuse him and he wants to continue the entertainment? Mark did say he has a strange sense of humor. "Why didn't you tell me who you are?" I blurt, not liking the idea of being a joke.

His lips quirk. "Because then you would have told me you loved my work even if you hated it."

My brows dip. I'm not sure how I feel about that. "That's sneaky."

"It spared you the awkwardness of pretending to like my work."

"There wouldn't have been any awkwardness. I like your work."

"And I like that you like my work," he approves, a warm glow in his eyes. "So...shall I walk you to your car?"

My escape has been further waylaid, but I'm not sure that is a bad thing anymore. "Okay," I squeak, appalled at my lack of voice. There is a reason I don't date much. I'm horrible at it. I get shy and I pick the wrong men, who use both of those very things against me. Dominant, controlling men, who seem to turn me on in the bedroom, and off in real life. It's genetic. I'm quite certain that had I a sister, she would have been just as foolish about men as myself and as my mother had been. And while Chris, at first impression, doesn't strike me as arrogant or controlling, his failure to tell me who he was earlier in the evening was in fact a way of controlling my reaction. Not that I think he is interested in me. I'm over-analyzing and I know it. Chris Merit could have his choice of women, and in fact, probably has. He doesn't need to add little ol' me to the list.

"You know my name," he says, pulling me from my reverie. "It's only fair I know yours."

"Sara. Sara McMillan."

"Nice to meet you, Sara."

"I should be the one saying that to you," I say. "I wasn't joking when I said I love your art. I studied your work in college.

"Now you're making me feel old."

"Hardly," I say. "You started painting when you were a teen."

He cast me a sideways look. "You weren't joking when you said you studied my work."

"Art major."

"And what do you do now?"

I feel a little punch to my gut. "School teacher."

"Art?"

"No," I say. "High school English."

"So why study art?"

"Because I love art."

"Yet you're an English teacher?"

"What's wrong with being an English teacher?" I ask, unable to curb the defensiveness in my tone.

He stops walking and turns to me. "Nothing is wrong with it at all, except that I don't think that's what you want to do."

"You don't know me enough to say that. You don't know me at all."

"I know the excitement I saw in your eyes when you were in the gallery."

"I don't deny that." A gust of wind rushes over us and goosebumps lift on my skin, I don't want to be scrutinized. This man sees too much. "We should walk."

He shrugs out of his jacket and before I know what's happening, it's wrapped around my shoulders and that earthy raw scent of his is surrounding me. I'm wearing Chris Merit's coat and I am dumbstruck all over again. His hands are on the lapels and he is staring down at me. My gaze catches on the brilliant colorful tattoo that covers every inch of his right arm. I've never been with a man with tattoos, and never thought I liked them, but I find myself wondering where else he might have them.

"I saw you talking to Mark," he says. "Did you buy something tonight?"

"I wish," I say with a snort, and my embarrassment at the unladylike sound that comes too naturally only drives home reality to me. We are from two different worlds, this man and I. His is one of dreams fulfilled and mine is one of impossible dreams. "I doubt I could afford one of your brushes, let alone a completed piece."

His eyes narrow. "You shouldn't walk away from something that intrigues you." His voice is a soft rasp of sandpaper that still manages to be velvet on my nerve endings.

Suddenly, I'm not sure we are talking about art and my throat is dry. I swallow hard and though I hadn't decided I was really going through with it, I blurt, "I'm taking a summer job at the gallery."

His light blond brow arches. "Are you now?"

"Yes." I know it is the truth as I say the word. I know I've already decided I am going to take the job. "I'm filling in for Rebecca until her return." I search his face for a reaction, but I see none. He is unreadable--or am I just too affected by his nearness to see one?

His hands are still on the lapels and he doesn't move for a long moment. I don't want him to move. I want him to...I don't know...but then again, yes I do. I want him to kiss me. It's a silly, fantastical moment, no doubt brought on by the journals, that has me blushing. I cut my gaze, feeling as if the heat in his will scorch me inside out. I motion to my car, shocked to realize it's only one parking meter down. "That's me."

Slowly, his hands loosen on my--or rather his--jacket. I immediately walk to my car, willing myself not to dump my purse again. I click the locks open and I stop by the curb before opening my door. I turn to find him close, so very wonderfully close. And that scent of his is driving me wild, pooling heat low in my belly.

"Thanks for the walk and the jacket." I shrug out of it.

He reaches for the jacket and takes it, and I hope he will touch me, and fear that he will, at the same moment. I am so out of control and confused.

His eyes burn hot like green fire before he softly says, "It's been my pleasure...Sara." And then he just turns and starts walking, without another word.

Hours later, I sit on my bed in a pair of boxers and a tank, legs crossed, with that box and a screwdriver in front of me. I have no idea why the idea of taking the job at the gallery makes opening it seem imperative, but it does, and it is. Rubies trim the lid and an etched, abstract design is in the center. The latch holding it closed looks old and easy to break, and just as beautifully designed as the rest of the box.

"How very artsy," I murmur, tracing the design with my fingers. The idea of destroying the box doesn't sit well with me, nor does invading Rebecca's privacy. So why, why, why do I know I am going to open this box? Why do I have to know what is inside? "Curiosity killed the cat, Sara."

It doesn't seem to matter. Of their own will, my hands go to work. I slide the flat end of the screwdriver between the lips of the lid and base and apply pressure. The latch pops easily.

My adrenaline surges and my heart thunders in my chest. I have no idea why I am hanging on a thread, why I feel like this box is so important, why I feel any of this is important. Slowly, I lift the lid, and luxurious red velvet is the first thing I see. I suck in a breath at what is cradled by that velvet and my heart thunders all over again.

Purchase the full length novel available at Barnes & Noble

# PART THREE

## Character profiles and bonus excerpts

Meet the narrator and focal point of the series

Sara McMillan....

AGE: 28

HEIGHT: 5'4"

HAIR COLOR: Long dark brown

PROFESSION: High school teacher turned Art dealer

RELATIONSHIPS: Best friend is Ella Ferguson, One serious prior relationship with Michael Knight which ended badly.

FAMILY: Father alive, and a controlling man. Mother died of massive heart attack when Sara was 22

AUTOMOBILE: Silver Ford Focus

FAVORITE THINGS: Art, White Chocolate Mocha.

OTHER ATTRIBUTES: Masters of Art from The Art Institute, Unsure of herself, Curious, Intrigued by Rebecca's life, Her past still affects her.

The two men in Sara's life

Chris Merit

PROFESSION: Famous contemporary artist who comes from a wealthy family

AGE: 35

HEIGHT: Over six feet tall

HAIR: Longish light blond hair, light blondish brown hair, longish dirty blond hair, as long as his chin

EYES: Intelligent green eyes, flecks of gold shimmer in them, glisten green and gold in the sunlight

LOOKS: Incredibly good looking, not classically good looking but more raw male hotness no so sophisticated and debonair, more raw and earthy like his scent

TATTOO: Brilliant colorful dragon tattoo covers every inch of his right arm etched with such detail and skill, he could have drawn it himself

ATTIRE: Casual: jeans, t-shirts, leather jackets, biker boots

VEHICLES: Porsche 911's, collects Mustangs, and Harleys 

## Bonus Chris and Sara excerpt (R Rated!)

The Window Scene

The elevator is right off of the fancy lobby and past a security booth. Chris punches the button and the doors open immediately. I follow him inside, and watch as he keys in a code. The doors shut and he pulls me hard against him.

My hands settle on his hard chest, inside the line of his jacket, and warmth spreads through me. "What just happened?" His hand brands my hip.

My breasts are heavy, my nipples aching. "I don't know what you mean?"

"Yes. You do. Second thoughts, Sara?"

I scold myself for being so transparent. "Do you want me to have second thoughts?"

"No. What I want is to take you to my apartment and make you come and then do it all over again."

Oh...yes please. "Okay," I whisper, "but I think you should feed me first."

His lips curve into a smile, his eyes dancing with gold specks of pure fire. "Then you can feed me."

The bell dings and the doors begin to open. Chris wastes no time pulling me to the edge of the elevator, and I watch in surprise as a gorgeous living room appears before me, rather than a hallway. Chris has a private elevator and I am entering his private world, a world very unlike my own.

Chris releases my hand, our eyes lock, and I read the silent message in his. Enter by choice, without pressure. On some level I sense that once I enter his apartment, the decision to do so is going to change me. _He_ is going to change me in some profound way I cannot begin to comprehend fully. I think he might know this and I wonder why he would be so certain, what is etched with such clarity to him beneath the surface.

He has misplaced doubts of me in this moment, as he'd doubted me at the gallery. I can see it in his eyes, sense it in the air. I refuse to allow his lack of confidence in me, or anyone else's for that matter, to dictate what I can or cannot do ever again. I've been there and I ended up on the sharp edge of a cliff, about to crash and burn. I'd recovered, and I am beginning to see that locking myself in a shell of an existence isn't healing. It's hiding. Regardless of what happens at the gallery, I'm done hiding.

My chin lifts and I cut my gaze from Chris's and exit the elevator.

My heels touch the pale, perfection of glossy hardwood floors and I stop and stare at the breathtaking sight before me. Beyond the expensive leather furniture adorning a sunken living room with a massive fireplace in the left corner is a spectacular sight. There is a ceiling to floor window, a live pictorial of our city, spanning the entire length of the room.

Spellbound, I walk forward, enchanted by the twinkling night lights and the haze surrounding the distant Golden Gate Bridge. I barely remember going down the few steps to the living area, or what the furniture I pass looks like. I drop my purse on the coffee table and stop at the window, resting my hands on the cool surface.

We are above the city, untouchable, in a palace in the sky. How amazing it must be to live here, and wake up to this view every day. Lights twinkling, almost as if they are talking to each other, laughing at me as they creep open a door to the hollow place inside me I've rejected only moments before in the elevator.

I swallow hard as the song 'Broken' from the band Lifehouse fills the room because Chris doesn't know how personal it is to me. _I'm falling apart. I'm falling to pieces, barely hanging on._

This song, this place with the words, and I am raw and exposed, as if cut and bleeding. Who was I kidding with the refusal to hide anymore? This is why I've hidden. The past begins to pulse to life within me and I am seconds from remembering why I feel this way. I refuse to process the lyrics and shove them aside. I don't want to remember. I can't go there. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to seal those old wounds, desperate to feel anything but their presence.

Suddenly, Chris is behind me, caressing my jacket from my shoulders. His touch is a welcome sensation and when his arm slides around me, his body framing mine from behind, I am desperate to feel anything but what this song, no doubt aided by the wine, stirs inside me.

I lean into him and hard muscle absorbs me. There is a strength to Chris, a silent confidence I envy, and it calls to the woman in me.

His fingers, those talented, famous fingers, brush my hair away from my nape and his lips press to the delicate area beneath, creating goosebumps on my skin. And still, I barely block out the words to the song, and their meaning to me.

As if he senses my need for more--more something, anything, _just more_ \- he turns me around to face him and his fingers tangle almost roughly into my hair. The tight pull is sweet, dragging me from other feelings, giving me a new focus.

"I am not the guy you take home to mom and dad, Sara." His mouth is next to mine, his clean male scent all around me. "You need to know that right now. You need to know that won't change."

But the song does change and this time to another track on what must be a Lifehouse CD. 'Nerve damage' begins to play. _I see through your clothes, your nerve damage shows. Trying not to feel...anything that's real._

I laugh bitterly at the words and Chris pulls back to study me. And I am not blind to what I see in the depths of his green eyes, what I've missed until now, but sensed. He is as damaged as I am. We have too many of the wrong things in common to be more than sex, and the realization is freedom to me.

I curve my fingers on the light stubble of his jaw, the rasp on my skin welcome, and I have no idea why I admit what I have never said out loud. "My mother is dead and I hate my father so don't worry. You're safe from family day and so am I. All I want is here and now, this piece of time. And please save the pillow talk for someone who wants it. Contrary to what you seem to think, I'm no delicate rose."

A stunned look flashes on his face an instant before I press my lips to his. The answering moan I am rewarded with is white-hot fire in my blood that he answers with a deep, sizzling stroke of his tongue. He slants his mouth over mine, deepening the connection, kissing me with a fierceness no other man ever has, but then, Chris is like no other man I've ever known.

His tongue plays wickedly with mine, and I meet him stroke for stroke, arching into him, telling him I am here and present, and I'm going nowhere. In reply to my silent declaration, his hand cups my ass and he pulls me solidly against his erection. Arching into him, I welcome the intimate connection, burn for the moment he will be inside me. My hand presses between us and I stroke the hard line of his shaft.

Chris tears his mouth from mine, pressing me hard against the window, and I know I've threatened his control. Me. Little school teacher Sara McMillan. Our eyes lock, hot flames dancing between us and some unidentifiable challenge.

Some part of me realizes the window behind me is glass, and all things glass can break. He knows this too, it's in the dark glint of his eyes, and he wants me to worry about it. He's pushing me, testing me, trying to get me to break. Because I slid beneath his composure? Because he really believes I am out of my league? And maybe I am, but not tonight. Tonight, as the song has said, I am broken and for the first time perhaps ever, I am not denying the truth of all of my cracks. I am living them.

I lift my chin and let him see my answering rebellion. His fingers curl at the top of my silk blouse and in a sharp pull, material rips and the buttons all the way down pop and clamor in all directions. I gasp, in unfamiliar territory, and burning alive with the ache I have for this man.

He turns me to the window, and my hands flatten on the glass. Wasting no time, Chris unhooks my bra, and it and my blouse, are off my shoulders in moments. He is behind me again, his thick erection fitted snugly to my backside.

"Hands over your head," he orders, pressing my palms to the glass above me, his body shadowing mine. "Stay like that."

My pulse jumps wildly and adrenaline surges. I've been ordered around during sex, but in a clinical, bend over and give me what I want kind of way I tried to convince myself was hot. It wasn't. I hated every second, every instance, and I'd endured it. This is different though, erotic in a way I've never experienced, enticingly full of promise. My body is sensitized, pulsing with arousal. I am hot where Chris is touching me and cold where he isn't.

When he seems satisfied I'll comply with his orders, Chris slowly caresses a path down my arms, and then up and down my sides, brushing the curves of my breasts. He's in no hurry, but I am. I am literally quivering by the time his hands cover my breasts, welcoming the way he squeezes them roughly, before tugging on my nipples. I gasp with the pinching sensation he repeats over and over, creating waves of pleasure verging on pain, and the music is fading away, and so is the past. _There is pleasure in pain_. The words come back to me, and this time they resonate.

His hands are suddenly gone, and I pant in desperation, trying to pull them back.

Chris captures my hands and forces them back to the glass above me, his breath warm by my ear, his hard body framing mine. "Move them again and I'll stop what I'm doing, no matter how good it might feel."

I quiver inside at the erotic command, surprised again by how enticed I am by this game we are playing. "Just remember," I warn, still panting, still burning for his touch. "Payback is Hell."

His teeth scrape my shoulder. "Looking forward to it, baby," he rasped. " _More than you can possibly know."_

Mark Compton

PROFESSION: Owner, Manager - Allure Art Gallery, family owns the largest auction house in the world. Allure is the largest, most prestigious gallery among San Francisco's many. The gallery is a four-thousand-square-foot wonder. The entryway opens to the main showroom of glistening white wonder. The walls are snow white, the floor glistening like white diamonds. The shiny divider walls curve like abstract waves, and each of them is adorned with contrasting, eye popping, colorful artwork.

AGE: 34

HEIGHT: Over six feet

HAIR: Neatly trimmed blond hair

EYES: Silvery gray eyes, more pale blue than gray

LOOKS: Tall and confident, an air of ownership about him classically handsome, something raw and sexual about him, something almost predatory

ATTIRE: suits, impeccably dressed

VEHICLES: Sporty silver Jaguar

## Bonus Sara and Mark Excerpt

"This is the new-hire paperwork and some test Mark said you need to take."

"Test?"

"Yes. Test. Do you have a problem with that Ms. McMillan?"

Mark's voice, dark and commanding, draws my gaze, and I barely stop myself from sucking in a breath at just how striking my new boss really is. He is wearing a light gray suit that enhances the unique silvery quality of his eyes, which are more pale blue in this lighting, instead of gray as I had first thought. His features are finely carved, his bottom lip full, his jaw strong. He is tall, and athletic, his blond hair neatly styled. He is . . . beautiful.

"I'm a schoolteacher, Mr. Compton," I finally manage to say. "I love a good test. I'm simply curious as to what kind of testing."

"We'll start with basics, and I'll decide where we go from there," he says, cutting a quick look at Amanda. "I'll finish up the paperwork with Ms. McMillan, Amanda." He is curt, authoritative. Intimidating. Intimidatingly sexy.

"Oh yes," she says, popping to her feet like a jack-in-the-box who's just had its handle cranked. She wasn't kidding about being intimidated by the man, and with him present, I am not without understanding of how she feels.

"Coffee is ready, by the way," she announces to him, and I can feel her angst, her plea for his approval that she doesn't get. She grabs her cup and heads toward him, and he steps aside to allow her to exit, but his eyes are locked on me, impassive, unreadable. That insecure part of me that Michael played on flares its ugly head inside me, that part of me so like Amanda. Heat lashes through my veins and I will it away. I could so easily want to please this man, and it terrifies me that I still have that in me.

You are not the same person you were with Michael, I tell myself. I'm not naive. I'm not inexperienced. I will not be captivated by this man's power, his presence, even if I am not blind to his appeal. I am in control. Besides, he is my boss, not my lover.

He saunters to the coffeepot and fills a cup and, without asking, refills my cup. His eyes meet mine before he moves away, and I see the steel there, I see the dominance in the otherwise polite act. He didn't ask if I wanted more coffee. He simply decided I did and thus I do. I need to establish parameters with this man and do so now. I am not going to touch that cup.

In an instant, he's claimed the seat across from me, and the entire room along with it, and I am staring into those silvery gray eyes and I do not dare look away. I tell myself it's my show of strength, but deep down, I know I am captivated, commanded, to hold his stare.

"I wasn't sure you'd show up today," he finally says.

"Why wouldn't I?"

Several seconds tick by before his lips quirk slightly and he reaches into the folder and passes me a piece of paper and a pencil. "I hired you without so much as a reference check, on pure instinct. My instincts, Ms. McMillan, are very good. I'd like you to prove that an accurate statement." He reaches for the powdered creamer.

I glance down at the paper and see ten questions, quickly determining they are all related to medieval art.

"Begin," he orders softly.

I glance up at him to find him settling back into his seat, clearly intending to watch me write the test. He wants to intimidate me, and I do not want to let him. My jaw sets, and

I reach for the pencil. I can feel him watching me, and I am flustered to realize my hand shakes ever so slightly. Men like him do not miss such details. He knows it's shaking. He knows he's affecting me.

I forcefully clear the haze from my mind and focus on the questions, which are quite advanced but well within my expertise. I finish them quickly and flip the paper around for his review.

He's still leaning back in his chair, deceptively casual, watching me, his gaze hooded, his expression once again impassive. He doesn't reach for the test, but instead, his attention flicks to my cup.

"You aren't drinking your coffee, Ms. McMillan."

"I'm over my limit for the day."

"Limits are meant to be pushed."

"Too much caffeine makes me shaky." The words--the lie--is out before I can stop it. Where are all these lies coming from?

He leans forward, and I can smell his clean, spicy male scent. "Sharing a cup of coffee," he says, "is a bit like celebrating a new partnership, don't you think?"

The challenge he has just issued crackles in the air, along with some other, unnamed electricity that had my throat thick and my heart racing. It's just a cup of coffee, but yet I sense that this is about so much more, that this is another test that has nothing to do with skill but rather with him. Me. And I don't know why I want to comply, to please him. Of course I do, I tell myself. He's the kind of man who expects those around him to follow his lead. I cannot fight his will and be here. I tell myself that is why I comply, why I do as I wish. I tell myself I am not weak, and he is in control of the job, not me. I reach for the coffee.

#

# PART FOUR

### Places from Chris and Sara's visit to Paris

So as you may know, I actually traveled to Paris so I could properly describe and, hopefully, evoke the feeling of Paris when I wrote Revealing Us (book 3). It was definitely a trial writing the quirks and the feel of another city, let alone country, into my book. Hubs (Diego) and I took off for Paris not really knowing what to expect, but it ended up being an experience of a lifetime!

The culture is so rich, and magnificent there, I really did not want to leave. We visited the Louvre, home of the Mona Lisa. We walked along Avenue Foch which is where Chris's Parisian apartment is located and the view to the Eiffel Tower was breathtaking.

And then there was the most... shocking? exciting? intimidating? whatever it was, it was memorable, experience. Again, if you've read the book you know there's a sex club mentioned. My dear, dear husband and I actually went in the very one I described. I swear, it was not to partake in the fun, it was purely research! Promise! However, we got a lot more than we bargained for. I actually have a video up on my YouTube channel about our experience there. It was something that I will never forget. I don't have any pictures of that, but I do have some other ones that I hope you'll enjoy and be able to get a feel of Chris and Sara's surroundings while they were abroad!

**Avenue Foch**

**Avenue Foch street sign**

**The Louvre**

**Mona Lisa**

**Mona Lisa actual size**

**City street in Paris**

**Another street view in Paris**

**Arc de Triomphe**

**Eiffel Tower**

**Eiffel Tower lit up at night**

**More images from our Paris trip!**

## Playlist

**_Nerve Damange_** by Lifehouse

**_I'm with You_** by Avril Lavigne

**_Broken_** by Lifehouse

**_Could I Be You_** by Matchbox Twenty

**_Broken_** by Seether, Amy Lee

**_Somewhere In Between_** by Lifehouse

**_If You're Gone_** by Matchbox Twenty

**_Whatever It Takes_** by Lifehouse

**_Take Me Away_** by Lifehouse

**_Like Sugar_** by Matchbox Twenty

**_Overjoyed_** by Matchbox Twenty

**_The Bottom_** by Staind

**_Somebody That I Used To Know_** by Goyte, Kimbra

**_Disease_** by Matchbox Twenty

**_Mad World_** by Adam Lambert

**_Stay_** by Rihanna

**_You and Me_** by Lifehouse

**_Say Something by A Great Big World_** , Christina Aguilera

**_Madness_** by Muse

**_Hysteria_** by Mus

**_Hurricane_** by Thirty Seconds to Mars

**_When I Was Your Man_** by Bruno Mars

## Reading order

#

# PART FIVE

## A sneak peek into DENIAL!

**_Coming November 24, 2015 --available for pre-order now!_**

**_DENIAL_** is book 1 in the **CARELESS WHISPERS** series--which follows the story of Sara's best friend Ella who is found to have gone missing during the **INSIDE OUT** series. Please note: while it would be beneficial it is not necessary to read the **INSIDE OUT** series before you read the **CARELESS WHISPERS** series.

##

### About the book

From New York Times bestselling author Lisa Renee Jones, the first book in the **CARELESS WHISPERS** series. This is a spin-off of the **INSIDE OUT** series (in development for TV) that follows Ella Ferguson, Sara McMillan's best friend.

Ella Ferguson awakes alone in Italy, unsure of who she is, and a gorgeous man has claimed her as his own. He's tall, dark, and sexy, with money and power, the kind of man who makes a girl want to be possessed. And he does possess her, whispering wicked wonderful promises to her, stealing her trust and her heart. Soon though, the past finds her, yanking her from a cocoon of passion and safety. Everything is not how it seems. The truth will shatter her world, but it can set her free, if it doesn't destroy her first. 

#### Chapter One from DENIAL

I blink and open my eyes to stare at the unfamiliar white ceiling, a dull throbbing at the back of my head. My throat is dry and I swallow with effort, waiting for something familiar to come to me, but there is nothing--just the white ceiling and more of the throbbing beneath my scalp. I decide I must be having a weird dream, and I'd really like to wake up now.

Shifting, I roll to my side to find myself staring into a pair of pale blue eyes so striking and pure that they seem inhuman. I blink again and bring the gorgeous man directly in front of me into stunning clarity. Thirty-something, with thick, longish light brown hair. His cheekbones are high, his chin dimpled.

"You're beautiful," I murmur, admiring my mind's work. I like this dream.

His deliciously full and sensual mouth curves with my comment. "I've been called a lot of things, sweetheart, but beautiful isn't one of them. And this isn't a dream. How's your head?"

"It hurts," I say, my brow furrowing as I digest all he has said, and I realize I muttered that last thought aloud. "And wait. What? This isn't a dream?" I lift up on one elbow, and I'm punished for my effort with the pounding of my head. "Okay," I murmur, squeezing my eyes shut. "Maybe I want to wake up now, after all."

"Easy," he warns, his hand coming down on my shoulder, his touch oddly familiar even if he is not. "Lie back down," he urges, and when I obey, he leans over me. "Sleep is a good idea. It'll help you heal."

I stare up at my beautiful stranger, and just the sight of him tells me he's wrong. This is a dream, and I follow along where it's taking me. "What's wrong with me?"

"You have a concussion," he explains, settling back down onto some sort of stool. "A pretty bad one, which is why you're in the hospital."

"Hospital?" I repeat, putting together the pieces of the puzzle and deciding that he must be my fantasy doctor. Fighting against the discomfort of moving, I roll to my side again, trying to confirm this assessment. The result is the certainty that every part of this man is hot; his black jeans and matching tee are hugging a lean, muscled body that absolutely fits my "fantasy" assessment. The doctor part, not so much.

"Shouldn't you be wearing scrubs?"

"Last I heard, that isn't a requirement for a visitor."

My brow furrows again. "So ... you're not my doctor?"

He laughs. "No. I'm not a doctor. I'm the man who found you in the alleyway passed out."

"Alleyway?" I repeat. This dream is getting a little strange.

He gives me a curious look. "You don't remember?"

"No." Considering I seem to have no memory except for the here and now, my answer is easy.

"Hmmm," he murmurs thoughtfully. "Well, I'm sure it's just the pain and trauma, but we need to call a nurse anyway and let them know that you're awake." He reaches for a remote-control-like device hanging from the edge of my bed and I watch him, thinking that he has very nice hands. Strong, masculine hands. Familiar, I think. Maybe. I'm pretty sure. I'm considering why that might be when he murmurs something into the remote that I can't seem to understand. My head is so murky, it almost sounds like he's speaking another language. Which is crazy.

"Someone will be right in," he announces, returning the device to where he found it.

I open my mouth to thank him and realize something rather important. "I, ah ... hate to admit this, but I don't seem to remember your name."

"Kayden," he supplies, rolling his stool closer, the full force of his attention landing on me. It's nerve-wrackingly intense. "And you don't remember because I never told you."

"Oh--right. Because I was knocked out."

"Exactly."

"In an alleyway," I say, trying to get my thoughts around that.

"Right again," he confirms.

"What was I doing in an alleyway?"

"According to law enforcement, most likely being mugged."

I wait for the expected shock, followed by fear and bad memories, but still nothing comes to me. "When?"

He lifts his wrist, displaying a watch with a thick black leather band. "It's six in the morning now. I called for the ambulance just after midnight."

"That's bizarre. What was I doing in an alleyway after midnight?"

"I was curious about the same thing."

"Why were _you_ there?"

"Trying to reach the grocery store in front of it, before it closed."

"I see." My brow furrows. "I just can't imagine myself making the decision to go to a dark, deserted place alone that late at night."

"Maybe you didn't. Maybe you were forced."

"That's a horrible thought," I say, and while I mean the words, I remember nothing, therefore I feel nothing.

"But a logical one, considering you ended up in the hospital."

There is a flickering image in my mind of an ambulance and cobblestone pavement, and I can almost feel the cold ground against my body. And it's then that fiction becomes reality.

"I'm not dreaming, am I?"

"You didn't really think you were, did you?"

"I thought ... because I can't remember anything ... it just seemed off. I'm off."

"Because you have a head injury--and from what you've indicated, a hellacious headache. That's no dream I want to experience."

He's right, of course. _He_ might be dream-worthy, but nothing else about this is. Definitely not the blank space in my mind that I try to access now and fail. I don't know what is happening to me. Panicked, I jerk to a sitting position, a mistake I'm punished for as the pain bleeds from the center of my skull left and right, seeming to draw a circle.

Groaning, I curl forward and grab my head. "It feels like my scalp is being detached."

"You need to lie back down," Kayden insists.

"No," I say, grabbing my legs to support myself. "No, I don't need to lie down. I need to remember what happened to me."

"I'm raising the bed for you," he says, and a low hum fills the air as the mattress comes to life.

I force my head up and look at him. "Kayden," I say, clinging to what I know. "Your name is Kayden."

"Yes," he confirms, his hands encasing my waist as he eases me against the mattress. "My name is Kayden."

"Thank God," I breathe out. "I have present-time memory."

He starts to move away and I grab his forearms, holding him to me. "Wait. What's my name?"

"What? You don't know your name?"

"I can't remember _anything_ before I woke up. Just tell me my name. Please. I need a trigger for my memories."

He studies me for a beat, maybe two, in which I want to yank a response from his mouth. And then he's standing, giving me his back, one hand running through his thick hair.

"Kayden, _please_ ," I say, freaking out at his reaction.

"What's going on? Why aren't you answering me?"

He faces me, hands settling on his lean hips. "Because I can't. You were mugged. Your purse and identification were missing when I found you."

"You don't know who I am, either?" I feel as if I've been kicked.

"None of us do."

"Surely someone has come looking for me."

"Not yet."

"Not yet?" I choke out, and the news is yet another gut-wrenching blow that leaves me reeling and alone. What kind of person has no one looking for her?

He moves to the side of my bed again and sits down. "It's only been a few hours."

"Please don't do that obligatory make-me-feel-better thing that people do. I am indebted to you for saving me, and I appreciate that you waited here until I woke up--but you don't have to stay here with me." My eyes prickle with tears, and I stare at the doorway, trying to compose myself.

Of course, it's at that poorly timed moment that a woman in green scrubs rushes into the room, speaking in a language I don't understand. I inhale and will away the tears threatening to spill over, only to have her stop at the foot of my bed, her speech pausing expectantly. I blink and realize that she's waiting for an answer I can't deliver. I stare at her. She stares at me, and while the tears might be gone, I have this sense of standing in quicksand, sinking fast, unable to claw my way out.

Kayden rescues me, stepping to my side and answering for me. Confused, overwhelmed with everything but memories, I let my head roll forward, pressing my fingers to my throbbing forehead and telling myself not to crumble. I have to be stronger than this moment in time.

"You don't know Italian, do you?"

At Kayden's question, I look up to find the nurse gone and him standing at the end of the bed. "Why would I?"

"It's the native language."

He's making no sense. "No, it's not."

"You don't know that you're in Rome." It's not a question, and he doesn't wait for an answer. "Of course you don't. Why would you? You don't even know your own name."

"What? I can't be in Rome. I'm American."

"You have to know that's not a logical reply. Plenty of Americans, myself included, live in Rome, while thousands of others visit as tourists."

"I know that--I meant I don't live here."

"So you're visiting," he says, rounding the bed to reclaim the stool. "That's progress. Where _do_ you live?"

"I don't know," I say, wracking my brain. " _I don't know_. I just know it's not here."

"That's okay. You know you're American. You know you don't live here. You'll remember the rest in time."

"You have no idea how much I want you to be right."

"I'm right," he assures me, "and for the record, you were right, too. I don't have to stay. But I am."

"I don't want to be an obligation."

"I don't do obligation, sweetheart."

"Well, then, pity."

"Another thing I don't do, so if you're looking for someone to feel sorry for you, I'm the wrong guy for the job."

"There are no other reasons for you to be here."

"Aren't there?" he challenges softly.

"What does that even mean?" I ask, but it's a forgotten question when I hear "Good morning."

A twenty-something woman in dark blue scrubs, her long dark hair tied neatly at her nape, sweeps into the room and offers me hope that I might actually find a way to escape all of this white noise.

"I'm Maria," she says pleasantly, stopping at the end of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Like someone turned off the switch to my brain," I say, holding nothing back.

"That's quite normal after a head trauma," she assures me.

"How about your back? Can you move okay?"

I flex a bit, and grimace. "I can. I just don't want to."

"I'm not surprised," she says. "You have a pretty nasty lump between your shoulder blades."

I don't care about my back. I care about my memories. "When will the doctor be in?"

"He's on his rounds now," she says, "but he'll be by soon to discuss your recovery. Now let's check your vitals."

She moves toward Kayden's side of the bed and he stands reluctantly--or maybe I'm imagining it because I don't want him to leave. He might be a stranger, and I might hate feeling like a burden, but he's also all I have right now.

Moving into Kayden's spot, Maria reaches for the blood pressure cuff and wraps my arm. "So far, your vitals have been looking good."

It's then that Kayden steps to her left, hovering over her shoulder, seeming to supervise her actions, and I swear the look on his handsome face is intense, almost possessive--which is a ridiculous thought. He barely knows me. I barely know him. He's not possessive. Protective, maybe, of the woman he saved. Yes. That has to be it. That's why he's still here.

"How's your pain?" Maria asks, shifting my attention back to her.

"Fine, unless I move."

"That should start easing up by tomorrow," she assures me, going silent for a moment to operate the blood pressure machine before confirming, "Still right on target." She removes the cuff and picks up my chart by the bed.

"What about memory loss?" I ask. "Is that normal?"

"It happens," she says, her tone matter-of-fact, dismissive even.

"But it's not just a few mental hiccups," I clarify. "It's a complete meltdown."

"It's probably not as bad as you think," she says, "but let's do a little test." Her pencil is poised to write on my chart.

"Let's fill in the blanks. I need your full name, birthday, and address."

I laugh without humor. "I'd like to know those things myself."

Her brow furrows. "You don't know your name, birthday, or address?"

"That's what I am telling you. My memory is gone. I don't know my name. I don't know how I got here. I don't remember what happened last week."

She narrows her gaze. "What is the last thing you do remember?"

"Waking up here."

"No," she amends, "I mean, what do you remember before right now?"

"Nothing," I say. "There is nothing but now."

She stares at me, her expression cautiously blank; more beats pass as she says nothing. Then she glances over her shoulder at Kayden and speaks a few sentences in Italian that are obviously about me. He replies rather shortly, almost as if he's reprimanding her. But she is undeterred, launching into more Italian.

"English, please," I plead, unable to take one more thing I don't understand, especially since it's about me, and to a stranger. How is _that_ okay?

"I'm sorry," Maria apologizes, setting the chart back on its clip.

"What did you say to him?" I ask, glancing at Kayden.

"What did you say to her?"

"I told him I'm going to have the doctor in to speak with you in a few minutes," she replies.

"And I told her we'd prefer sooner than later," Kayden adds.

"Do you need anything before I go?" Maria asks.

"To know what's wrong with me," I say, not believing for a minute that either of them has told me everything that was said. "Why can't I remember who I am?"

"Some temporary memory loss with a head injury isn't unheard of," she says.

"So this is temporary?" I press, hoping for positive news.

"Most likely, but the doctor is the one we need to speak with." She reaches down and squeezes my arm.

"Everything is going to be fine. Try not to worry."

"How do I not worry when I don't even know my name?"

"I know it's scary, but I'm certain we'll figure it all out. I'll go hurry the doctor along. Do you want anything in the meantime? Water? Something to eat?"

"Water would be good," I say, dying for a drink, but I amend my request: "It's not urgent. After you find the doctor, but thank you."

"We have water," Kayden announces, moving to a tray on top of a rolling table at the end of the bed and indicating a pitcher. "I'll take care of it."

"Just a little at first, so you don't get sick," Maria warns, heading to the door where Kayden delays her departure and, ignoring my request for English, says something to her in Italian. Maria gives him a quick, clipped reply and, seemingly satisfied with her answer, he steps aside and allows her to pass.

"I'll be back soon," she calls to me, breezing out of the room.

Kayden fills a cup with water, and I can't help but notice a tattoo on each of his wrists. The left one extends beyond the edge of his watch, but it's the right one that catches my eye: a box with words trailing up his forearm, none of which I can make out. I'm still trying when he sits next to me, and I'm not sure if I'm more aware of his powerful thigh pressing against mine or those piercing eyes giving me an intense inspection.

He hands me the water, our hands and gazes colliding, and I am jolted with the impact, feeling it in every part of me. Afraid he'll see my reaction, I tip up the cup and start to drink. _Oh, God._ The first drop on my tongue is liquid gold that has me gulping as fast as I can.

"Easy," Kayden warns, his hand coming down on mine again, heat radiating up my arm as he eases the rim from my lips. "Remember what Maria said. You'll make yourself sick."

"I'm still thirsty," I object, licking the last droplet of liquid bliss from my lips as he takes the water from me.

"A little at a time," he warns, setting the cup on the table beside the bed, acting more like a friend or family member than a stranger, like someone who cares when I seem to have no one who does.

Nervous energy has me wiping my mouth, aware that this is a moment when I should suggest he has better things to do than stay here. But I don't. I can't. I cling to him, the only person I know right now, embarrassingly worthy of the pity he swears he won't give me. "What did you say to Maria when she was leaving?" I ask.

"That I expect you to get the best care possible."

He makes the statement like he's in charge of my care. For a moment it's comforting, while in the next moment I know it's a façade I can't afford. "As much as I appreciate that, I need the cheapest options, not the best. I have no money."

"Money's the last thing that should be on your mind. Healing comes first."

"We both know that's not true. I have to walk out of here and survive, when I don't even remember where I live or where I'm staying."

There's movement outside the door, and Kayden stands as Maria enters with a tall man in a white coat, his thick hair graying on the sides.

" _Signorina_ ," the man greets me, crossing to stand beside my bed across from Kayden. "I'm your physician, Dr. Mortello. I've been caring for you since your admission some hours ago. I understand your head injury has left you with extensive memory loss?"

"That's correct," I say. "What does that mean?"

"Your CT scan showed a clear concussion, and most likely you're simply encountering side effects from the swelling of your brain. Still, I prefer to err on the side of caution. We're going to send you for an MRI and draw more blood to run some additional tests."

More tests mean more money, but Kayden's right. I can't think about that now. "If this is from the swelling," I ask, "how long until I recover my memory?"

"There's really no solid answer to that question," he replies.

"Each patient is different." A nurse appears in the doorway and speaks in Italian, then he tells me,

"They're ready for you now."

"Now?" I ask, shocked at how quickly this is moving.

"Why is this so urgent?"

"We're always cautious with head injuries, especially with unexpected symptoms."

"I thought I had normal symptoms."

"You do." Before I can press for a more conclusive answer, another nurse rushes into the room and says something to him in Italian. I wait for the moment I can push him for answers, but it never comes. "I need to go," he announces abruptly. "I'll see you back here after we have the results."

And just like that, he's gone, and one of the nurses steps to my side. "I'm Anna," the woman says. "I was with you when you first arrived and had the CT scan."

I study her, taking in her salt-and-pepper hair styled in a bun, and try to place her. "I'm sorry. I don't remember you."

"Of course you don't, silly," she says good-naturedly. "You were out like a light. Glad to see you're awake for the ride this time. We're going to roll you down to the MRI department."

She kicks the brake free on one of the wheels of my bed, and Kayden steps to the other side of me, kicking his side free as well and speaking to Anna in Italian, his hands resting on the railing. I open my mouth to plead for English again, but for some reason my gaze falls to his watch, to the brand name.

_Cartier_. The name means something to me beyond being an expensive brand, and I'm instantly frustrated that I know it's high priced, but still know nothing of who I am or why I'm here.

My gaze lifts to find Kayden watching me, his expression unreadable, his continued presence truly unexplainable. "Don't you have a job or something to go to?"

"My boss is good to me." His lips curve. "Some even say he's 'beautiful.' "

I flush with the obvious reference to my compliment. "I thought I was dreaming when I said that."

"Which makes it all the better."

"You aren't going to let me forget that, are you?"

"Not a chance."

I blush and we both laugh, the sounds mingling, soft and feminine, and low and deep. And then the air shifts around us and we are staring at each other. I have no idea why he's sticking this out with me, but without him, I'd be alone and even more scared.

"I don't know what would have happened to me if you hadn't found me in that alleyway," I say, a tremor slipping into my voice. "Thank you, Kayden."

There's a flicker in his eyes, a shadow that's there and gone before either of us blinks. "Thank me by getting your memory back," he says, and while it's a perfect answer, it's somehow imperfect. There's an odd undertone that reaches beyond predictability or sincerity.

It's the last thought I have before the bed is moving and I'm being pushed away from him, and I can't think for the motion setting the room spinning. Another bump, and my stomach churns. Groaning, I roll to my side, curling my knees to my belly, and I will myself to not throw up. The bumps and sways of the bed are pure torture.

"Oh, honey," Anna says, leaning over me as we stop moving. "That ride didn't go well, did it?"

"Sick," I manage, my throat thick, goose bumps rising on my arms. "And cold."

"I'll make sure we have some antinausea medicine waiting for you when you get out of the MRI machine."

"Can't you do it before?" I plead. "I don't want to get sick during the test."

"We'll have you done before I can get you medicine," she says. "If you're okay with it, I'd like to try and just get this over with for you. I'll put a warm blanket over your legs now to stop your shivering." She doesn't wait for my agreement, announcing, "We need to move you to the table," and she and another nurse are suddenly lifting me.

My stomach rolls and the throb in my head intensifies as they set me on the hard platform, which hits my injured back in all kinds of wrong ways. It also has me feeling exposed and very alone in my skimpy hospital gown. Hugging myself, I shiver, my teeth chattering. "Cold," I say. " _Really_ cold."

"I know," she says. "Hang in there. I'll get the blanket."

She rushes away and comes right back and, as promised, wraps my lower body. "Better?"

"Yes," I say, feeling a bit of the chill fade. "It helps."

"Good. Because once we start the MRI, you have to try to hold still." She unfolds my arms. "Keep them by your side." I nod, and she adds, "I'm going to put some headphones on you. It'll help with the noise." Before she puts them on, she tells me, "Try to just shut your eyes and it will be over soon."

I grab her hand before she covers my ears. "How soon?"

"Twenty minutes," she says.

"That's a long time."

"It'll be over before you know it." She covers my ears with the headphones and I hear some sort of music playing--classical, I think. The table starts to move and I hug myself again, the air around me seeming to chill from cold to frigid. Too soon, I'm in the center of a giant cylindrical machine.

"We need you to be really still," comes a voice in my ears. "And put your arms back down."

"Okay," I say, willing my body to calm. I need this test to get answers. I need to be well and remember who I am.

The music starts to play again, a soft violin that is moody, almost sultry, and I wonder how I know what a violin is when I can't remember my own name. A roar starts around me and the machine begins some kind of swirling motion. I squeeze my eyes shut. The volume of the music is louder now, the violin playing faster, the notes fierce and defiant, and suddenly I'm running down a cobblestone road, darkness cloaking me, my heart racing, fear in my chest. I have to get away. I have to escape. I look over my shoulder and try desperately to see who's after me, but there's only darkness and then a hard thud to my shoulders that makes me gasp, pain splintering upward into my skull.

I sink to my knees and tell myself to get up. _Get up_! But the pain, oh, the pain is so intense. I feel myself falling, my hands catching the pavement, rocks digging into my palms before my cheek is there too. And then there is blackness. Black, inky nothing. Time ticks and ticks, the pain radiating in my skull, until I'm suddenly on my back and blinking up into pale blue eyes, but I can't focus. Then everything goes black again.

#### And now for a steamy excerpt from DENIAL

His hand slides to my back and he leans me toward the table, forcing me to catch myself on my elbows. He holds me there, his body cradling mine, his lips a breath from a touch. "I won't let you fall."

"I know," I say, and I do now. Beyond time and reason, I trust this man.

His mouth brushes mine and then trails down my jaw, slowly teasing a path to my ear, where he whispers, "I'm not going to claim to own you the way he did." He flattens his hands on my belly, possessiveness in the touch. "I'm just going to make you wish I did."

My lips part with the erotic promise, and he is already kissing me, licking into my mouth, his tongue a sultry, seductive promise that he can make good on his vow. And while I do not wish anyone to own me again, I want what he offers in a way that defies reason.

He nips my lips and licks away the sweet ache, and somehow I feel that lick between my thighs where I am already wet and aching. His whiskers rasp on my cheek, down my neck to my shoulder, a wicked burn that is torment and pleasure at the same time. Like he is. His hands settle on my waist, lingering there, teasing me with all the places they could go, until finally he is caressing my body, up and down, a slow, sexy, torturous exploration.

He pinches my nipples again and he is not gentle, but I do not seem to want gentle. My sex clenches and my knees crush his hips. His lips curve to a small, satisfied smile that is wickedly sexy, and rawly male. He leans in and licks one of my throbbing nipples, sending a shiver down my spine, and I arch upward, the table biting into my elbows, but I do not care. He is sucking me, dragging deep on the knotted peak, and pleasure tingles through my nerve endings, my sex, forcing my legs to squeeze his hips again.

My arms tremble with my weight and he responds without me asking, moving closer and laying me on top of the table. My spine flattens on the hard surface and he lingers above me. "I want more."

"More what?"

"Everything," he says, his lips nuzzling my ear as he repeats,

" _Everything, Ella_. Can I have it?"

The question affects me, but not as much as the way he waits, genuinely seeking my approval. He takes power but somehow gives it to me as well, and this is freedom to me, safety. Things I do not think I have often felt in my life. "Yes," I whisper. "Yes."

He inhales as if my approval surprises and pleases him, as if it is a gift he relishes, not a property he owns. And it is then that I give myself the freedom to just let go, the muscles in my body easing in ways they hadn't before. I do give him everything. His mouth caresses mine and he whispers, "That's what

I wanted," as if he knows I've made that decision.

And already his lips are traveling down my neck, tongue flicking here and there, his hand caressing, squeezing my breast. He assaults my senses with pleasure, touching me, kissing me, driving away my memories and enemies. His whiskers rasp my belly, his lips pressing to the center, his tongue flickering into my navel, and I tremble with the silent promise it will soon be where I want it to be. His hand flattens over my sex, inches lower until he is flicking my clit, back and forth, back and forth.

He lifts my legs to his shoulders, spreading me wide, and I am vulnerably his, and aroused beyond belief. He lowers his head, his breath a warm tease on my sensitive places, and I grip the edge of the table, bracing myself for what is to come. He laps at my nub, the barely there touch, and I am breathing hard, wishing I could touch him, incapable of moving, and the muscles of my sex clench so tightly it hurts.

He licks my clit and I am both relieved and on edge in the same moment, ready for more, for that everything he has promised me. Another lick follows. _Yes, please, more_ , I think, and as if he's heard my silent plea, he gives it to me. His hands slide beneath my backside and he lifts me to his mouth, and it is nothing shy of sweet bliss when his mouth closes down around me. He sucks, drawing deeply on my sensitive flesh, lapping at me, licking me again in all the right ways and right places. I am panting and moaning, and I barely recognize the sounds as my own. Sensations ripple through me and when his fingers slide inside me, I am undone, tumbling into orgasm. The intensity jerks my body and I lose all time and space. It's escape, sweet, blissful escape, and he keeps me there, slowly bringing me down, the licks of his tongue growing softer, slower. Until I am sated, limp, and he pulls me back onto his lap, my head resting on his shoulder, his hand flattening between my shoulder blades.

"Everything or nothing," he whispers, and this time, I do not believe he is talking about orgasms and pleasure.

I lean back to look at him, and the idea of what we are becoming is a sweet seduction, threatened by the emptiness of my past. "What if everything is too much?"

He drags two fingers down my cheek. "Sweetheart, I don't have a ceiling. We're going to find out if you do."

#

# PART SIX

## Series Graphics

## Series Quotes

**IF I WERE YOU**

"You shouldn't walk away from something that intrigues you"

"Other people's perfection is a facade we create when we are second guessing ourselves"

"... I think we are two messed up people destined to destroy each other, but I can't walk away. No. Can't isn't the issue. I simply don't want to."

**BEING ME**

"This is who I am, Sara. I will protect you from everything and everyone else, but I can't protect you from who I am or who we will be if you stay with me."

"I've always known we were two puzzle pieces that fit together in a hollow that is our pain. There was a time when I was certain we were too damaged not to destroy each other. Now I think we are saving each other."

"I need him to know that I want to understand him because he matters, because we matter. Because life made me believe that what is blossoming between us wasn't possible, but maybe, just maybe, it is."

"I do high heels better post-caffeine."

**THE MASTER UNDONE**

"She's real to me in a way that no one else has felt in too long. In a world that seems painted in false shadows, I need something real in my life right now."

"I trust this woman more than I trust myself right now. And that scares me in a way I haven't been scared in a very long time."

"She's right, and yet my blood pumps faster, just thinking about having her naked and willingly at my mercy. I can't help but think she's exactly what I need: a challenge. And how sweet her submission would be, because I'd really earned it."

"Oh, please. You have so many rules, your rules have rules. Any woman who dared to date you would need an encyclopedia-sized book to keep up."

**REVEALING US**

"Hungry for him, I want his passion, I want his pain. I want it all."

"The past is a part of you and us. You can store it away someplace different, but you can't make it go away. And you can't even resolve it until you, we, face it."

"Baby, I held back today to let you get over all you've been through. But don't let that mislead you. You wouldn't be here if I planned on protecting you from me."

**HIS SECRETS**

"There are two kinds of pain, Sara. Pain meant to create pleasure, and pain meant to be just pain. You will never know that kind with me."

MY HUNGER

"I have no choice but to push her to make her feelings and her position clear."

"No one sees anything I don't want them to. But this woman, she sees too much. She makes me do things I don't do, and desire things I don't want to."

"What I need is her: to taste her, to feel those lips against mine, and that's exactly what I do. My mouth closes on hers, my tongue delving deeply, stroking, tasting. Taking. I need. Oh yes, I do, but that need shifts and changes, turns to something darker, and more demanding"

"Please, Mr. Compton."

**NO IN BETWEEN**

"Our demons are finally not as strong as we are"

"My fear? It's you not needing me enough."

"If you want me to trust you and show you everything, you have to be willing to trust me that much, too."

"I can't lose you."

"It's my turn to save him."

"Trust isn't a fair weather friend. It's about willingness to be vulnerable and exposed"

MY CONTROL

"My resolve to keep a distance from her once and for all dissolves instantly."

"People who're completely wrong for each other are completely right in a certain moment in time. Like us right now."

"Why does she feel so soft and still so right when she's supposed to be wrong?"

"I need this woman here, now, and with the kind of abandon I rarely allow myself"

I BELONG TO YOU

"Give yourself to me, Crystal."

"The very thing that would have made her wrong for me in the past is the very thing that makes her what I want and need now."

"I never take what isn't given to me freely, Ms. Smith."

"I trust Mark, even if he doesn't. And if he owns me, the past doesn't. I almost sag with relief.

"For the night," I concede. "You own me for only this night."

"I had no right to drag you into my hell - and once I did, couldn't seem to stay away from you. I even blamed you for my lack of control, because no one sees me that way you have. No one, Crystal. I had to get control over myself. And that meant control over my addiction to you."

"I squeeze my eyes shut as Crystal's voice stirs an odd sensation in my chest that somehow eases the ache in my guy. Desire rockets through me, and I tell myself it's about fucking and control. I need it, and she's my safe one outside of the club."

## Book Club Questions for

### **_If I Were You_**

If you found a journal would you read it?

Why would Mark -- a smart man - hire Sara without checking references? What do you think his motives were?

Do you think Chris and Mark were once friends and if so why?

Why if Sara was rich growing up has she not traveled? What clue do you think this might be to her past?

Who do you think is the man from the journal and why?

What do you think happened to Rebecca?

Do you think it's okay for two consenting adults to participate in a BDSM style relationship?

How do characters change or evolve throughout the course of the story? What events trigger such changes?

Did certain parts of the book make you uncomfortable? If so, why did you feel that way?

How did you experience the book? Were you engaged immediately, or did it take you a while to "get into it"? How did you feel reading it--amused, sad, disturbed, confused, bored...?

If you could ask the author a question, what would you ask? Have you read other books by the same author? If so how does this book compare? If not, does this book inspire you to read others?

## About the author

### Lisa Renee Jones

 New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author Lisa Renee Jones is the author of the highly acclaimed **INSIDE OUT SERIES** , and is now in development by Suzanne Todd ( ** _Alice in Wonderland, Austin Powers, Must Love Dogs_** ) for cable TV. In addition, her **Tall, Dark and Deadly** series **and The Secret Life of Amy Bensen** series, both spent several months on a combination of the NY Times and USA Today and USA Today lists.

Since beginning her publishing career in 2007, Lisa has published more than 40 books translated around the world. Booklist says that Jones suspense truly sizzles with an energy similar to FBI tales with a paranormal twist by Julie Garwood or Suzanne Brockmann.

Prior to publishing, Lisa owned multi-state staffing agency that was recognized many times by The Austin Business Journal and also praised by Dallas Women Magazine. In 1998 LRJ was listed as the #7 growing women owned business in Entrepreneur Magazine.

Lisa loves to hear from her readers. You can reach her at <http://www.lisareneejones.com> and she is active on twitter and Facebook daily.

Connect with Lisa

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## Buy links

If I Were You

B&N

The entire Inside Out series is available for purchase on all platforms! IF I WERE YOU is also available at Walmart (and Walmart.com) with a new special edition cover! BEING ME (book 2) will be available in Walmart stores 9/29/15, with a special edition cover as well. Buy links, excerpts, and more can be found at http://lisareneejones.com

The first two books in the **CARELESS WHISPERS** series are available for pre-order now!

**_Denial_** (book 1) releases November 24, 2015

**_Demand_** (book 2) releases May 3, 2016

**_Surrender_** (book 3) releases November 2016

