Once Upon A Seduction. Jamie Sobrato

been the kind of guy women stopped and turned around to admire when he passed them on the street, and he’d also been her biggest guy disaster.

      “What are your instincts telling you to do about him?”

      “Run, run, run, as fast as I can.”

      Fiona’s brow furrowed. She’d helped Skye develop her new do-the-opposite strategy. “That’s weird. Then… you have to give him a chance.”

      “A chance to what? Ruin what’s left of my sad little train-wreck life?”

      “I mean you have to cooperate with him, if your instincts are telling you not to. Besides, you said yourself Martin is nowhere near the top of the police’s priority list. If someone doesn’t find him soon, he’ll probably never be found.”

      “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

      “In fact—a guy as hot as Satan, and your instincts are telling you to run? You may need to take him straight to bed and screw his brains out if you really want to stick with the rule of opposites.”

      “Fiona! That’s insane.”

      “Think about it. You’re always taking things slow, getting to know the guy before you do the deed, waiting for love, blah, blah, blah. Maybe that’s all your crappy instincts leading you astray.”

      “Or maybe it’s just, like, common sense. Like, what ninety percent of the human race calls the courtship process!”

      “I’m just saying, with your track record… This is your first chance to test out your theory. You ought to do it right.”

      “Right,” Skye said, panic settling in her belly.

      She didn’t want to test out any theories, especially not with a guy who’d practically gotten her fired from her crappy job. Although…

      It was possible she needed to face the fact that her own actions, more than anything else, were what had caused her to lose her job. Nico’s appearance had simply hurried the process along.

      “Go talk to him. Maybe between the two of you, you really can find Martin and get your money back.”

      “Or maybe he’ll turn out to be a psychopath, and weeks from now the police will find pieces of me scattered around the foothills—the pieces the mountain lions didn’t eat, anyway.”

      “If he were a true psychopath, he wouldn’t have approached you in broad daylight, at your office, with a zillion witnesses to ID him and describe your heated exchange to the police.”

      “You haven’t seen what he brought and left on my desk.” Skye retrieved her bag and pulled out the red bra, then held it up in all its glory. “Would any sane man think this belongs to me?”

      Fiona gawked at the size of the thing. “Why would he bring you that?”

      “He thought it was mine, left behind in Martin’s cottage. It was his excuse to pay me an office call.”

      She frowned. “I thought Martin didn’t leave any traces when he left.”

      “Actually, he did leave a weird assortment of junk at his place, but nothing that could really lead us to him.”

      “Why’d you bring that home?”

      Skye frowned at the bra. “I thought we might want to perform a ritual burning. You know, to rid my life of the last physical trace of Martin.”

      “Sorry, but ever since the drunken flaming-dildo incident, I’ve sworn off ritual burnings.”

      Skye laughed in spite of her bad mood. Fiona had nearly burned down their apartment getting rid of the evidence of a previous boyfriend, who’d surprised her with an oh-so-romantic gift-wrapped dildo for Valentine’s Day—that he’d wanted her to use on him.

      “Let me see that,” Fiona said, reaching for the bra. “Maybe it’ll fit me.”

      “Right.” Skye tossed the bra to her. “In your porn-star dreams.”

      Fiona held the triple-D-cup bra up to her C-cup chest. “It’s close.”

      “Right. If you talk into it, there’ll be an echo.”

      She turned the bra around and read the tag. “Lolita’s Creations, Las Vegas, Nevada. Size 34DDD. Wow, I’d be surprised if the owner of this can stand upright without assistance.”

      “That’s kind of odd—a city name on a bra tag?”

      “Maybe it’s a custom lingerie shop. I mean, look at this thing. It’s got some unusual details.”

      There was a tiny beaded butterfly between the cups, and the edges were trimmed in sequins.

      “I wonder…” Skye said, not quite ready to get her hopes up.

      “If this is a clue to Martin’s whereabouts? It could be.” Fiona looked at the tag again. “The only other information is Dry Clean Only.”

      “Why would anyone wear a dry-clean-only bra?” Skye asked as Fiona handed the bra back to her.

      “Maybe if it’s, like, their professional attire?”

      “So my ex was screwing a stripper, a show girl or a prostitute. That makes me feel so much better.”

      “Don’t forget porn star.”

      “Thanks for reminding me.”

      “Why don’t you at least find out if Satan’s idea about Martin’s whereabouts matches up with your little lingerie clue?”

      Her clue was hardly little, but Fiona did have a point.

      “Okay, fine. I’ll talk to him, but if it’s a disaster, I’m giving you fifty percent of the blame.”

      “Does Satan have a human name?”

      “Nico Valletti, if you can believe it. He should be a soap opera star instead of a stalker.”

      “Maybe Nico’s still lurking outside waiting for you.”

      Skye tried to ignore the butterflies whirring in her belly as she stood, dropped the bra in her purse and put her shoes back on. “He drives a Ferrari,” she said, not sure what that suggested about his disaster potential.

      “And he lives in Malibu. You could do worse.”

      “Fiona, I’m going to talk to him about Martin, not scope him out as a possible rebound guy.”

      “Every guy that rich and gorgeous has the potential for something.”

      “I thought you had more integrity than me.”

      Fiona grabbed the remote and switched off CNN, leaving just the jungle sounds to punctuate their conversation. From the distant tropics, a monkey screeched.

      “I’m turning thirty next month,” she said. “The starving artist thing is getting old, and I don’t think it would be so bad to be with a guy who doesn’t have to go Dutch on every date.”

      Skye blinked. She’d never thought she’d hear Fiona sounding so…pragmatic.

      “What happened to, ‘Thirty is the year when we finally become real women’?”

      “It is, and as a real woman, I think I’d like to have some financial stability in my life.”

      “What are you saying?” Skye’s head was starting to do the same bongo-drum thing it did when she drank too many margaritas. Or maybe that was part of the jungle-sounds CD.

      “This probably isn’t a good time to spring this on you,” Fiona said as she began to rearrange the found objects on the coffee table. “But I’ve decided to leave Club Sunset and take that pharmaceutical sales job my dad found for me.”

      Skye sat on the ottoman, her beleaguered brain ready to call it quits for the day. She’d