Turn Me On. Kristin Hardy

an alternative lifestyles thing.”

      “You mean sex,” Stef said flatly.

      “Sex,” Gus agreed.

      His first inclination was to say hell no, but the prospect of being able to get his Greek documentary off the ground had him pausing. “Who’s the producer?”

      “She’s new to the game, but I’ve been teaching her the ropes the past few years. I think you’ll find her tough and fair.”

      “Who, Gus?”

      “My goddaughter, Sabrina Pantolini.”

      Like an icy wave, memories swamped him and robbed him of breath. Laughing eyes, a mouth always curved up in some sort of devilment, a body greedy for his touch. Eight years before, when he’d been in grad school, Sabrina Pantolini had been his lover.

      Eight years before, she’d been his love.

      Film had been what he’d lived and breathed, the drive for success pumping through his veins. Still, even he wasn’t immune to a woman like Sabrina. She’d taught him about life beyond film, brought him out into the fresh air. Taught him what it was like to love and be loved.

      And she had taught him about betrayal.

      “Oh, come on Gus, you know better than to ask something like this. A sex documentary is bad enough, but with her?”

      “She’s grown up a lot, Stef. She’s serious about this.”

      “This week.”

      “And the week before, and the five years before that,” Gus said reprovingly. “She’s paid her dues and been part of some damned fine work. I should know—she’s been doing it for me.”

      How was it that he hadn’t known about this, Stef asked himself. He certainly hadn’t missed her face in any of the glossy newsstand magazines. She unveiled a new grand career every week, or so it seemed, in between showing up at the hot parties with some good-looking guy on her arm. Not that that bothered him, he thought, loosening his jaw. The past was the past.

      And he hadn’t exactly been celibate himself, not that any of them had stuck. There had been other women, but none who felt right in his arms, none who tasted right. None who had been able to make him laugh and feel truly light the way Sabrina had. First love, he told himself, just memories of first love.

      “Look, Stef, I realize what I’m asking here. The question is do you want to do your Greek doc or don’t you? If you want it, then it’s a trade-off. I’ll get you the money and you get me that pilot in the can. Four weeks is all I’m asking.”

      “Plus postproduction,” Stef reminded him.

      “Plus postproduction, but that will go quicker than you think.”

      Stef hesitated. Gus was right; he didn’t beg, and somehow taking money from a friend seemed like the same thing.

      “You’ve got me in a bind here, Gus.”

      “Nonsense.” Gus’s voice was brisk. “I’m offering you a way out. And you’ll be doing me that favor you said you owed me.”

      Stef rubbed his temple. It was imperative that he get to Greece while the excavation was still going on. He owed it to his grandfather to tell his story the right way; he owed it to himself and his family to find out what he could.

      Besides, maybe before he uncovered one part of his past, he could bury another—the image he held of Sabrina from days gone by. Maybe, he thought, just maybe it would be good for him to take on Gus’s project. Reality couldn’t possibly match up to the memory. He’d see her, talk with her, get her out of his head once and for all.

      And when he was done with the project, he’d be done with her.

      “I’ll do it,” Stef said suddenly.

      “Wonderful.” Gus’s voice was delighted. “I’ll get some numbers from your producer and we can move things along. As far as the cable doc…” he paused.

      “It’s as good as done,” Stef said, ignoring his bellyful of misgivings at the idea of working with Sabrina again.

      Yeah, he was sure it was just misgivings.

      3

      “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, I have to have a fire truck on site?” Sabrina demanded of the faceless bureaucrat on the phone. “It’s not like we’re setting and filming open fires in the middle of a national forest. We’re filming on a street.”

      She sighed, tapping a pen on the stack of forms in front of her. She knew the cycle of permit after permit after permit by heart. That didn’t mean she had to like it. Sometimes, the regulations made sense. More often, she suspected they were put into place merely to torment her.

      “All right,” she said, giving in to the inevitable. “Off-duty cops and an off-duty fire truck on site at all times. If we get that, are we good to go?” At the affirmative answer, she gave a decisive nod. “Thanks for your help,” she said insincerely and hung up the phone.

      At the burble and whir of the fax machine in the outer office, Sabrina glanced out her door at Laeticia’s empty desk—Kisha had finally gone into labor and Laeticia was with her, leaving Sabrina to fend for herself. Just what she needed. Bad enough she was facing the prospect of dealing with Stef Costas again; now her office routine was falling apart. She was a professional, though. She’d deal with the office and she’d sure as hell deal with Stef. He might have mowed her over at nineteen, not now.

      Frowning at herself, Sabrina began to update her scheduling software with a list of shoots. A roving New York sex club, a lap dance tutor, a hotel for exhibitionists…Home Cinema wouldn’t know what had hit it. A lot of babies would be born nine months after the premiere, she thought, a broad smile spreading across her face.

      Two years of being a production manager had made Sabrina an expert in problem-solving, but that didn’t mean it was pleasant. Laeticia made the office an oasis of sanity and order; Sabrina felt her absence keenly. The phone rang and Sabrina snatched it up, only to find a telemarketer on the other end. A raise, she thought as she hung up. Laeticia definitely deserved a raise.

      Sabrina made a noise of frustration at the peremptory blat of sound in the reception room. The fax machine had gone silent; it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. With a sigh, Sabrina rose to take care of it. The signed contract for the documentary was coming through and the last thing she needed was to run out of paper in the middle of it.

      She pulled open the doors of the metal cabinet that housed their office supplies. The only box of paper was unopened, which meant digging out Laeticia’s box cutter. Bumping her head on an upper shelf, she cursed just as she heard a noise behind her.

      “You ought to be more careful, rushing into things like that. Then again, that always was your problem.”

      Sabrina froze. The words vibrated in the silence of the room and shivered into the marrow of her bones. Slowly, she straightened up and turned, pushing the hair out of her eyes.

      Stef Costas leaned against the wall just inside the door to her office. It snatched the breath from her lungs to see him there. A day-old beard darkened his jaw, framing his mouth. How she’d loved that mouth, addictive and enticing, hot and demanding on hers. How she’d loved him, once upon a time.

      Once upon a time…the beginning of all good fairy tales. Theirs had been the fairy story of all time, a magical fantasy of true love.

      Only they hadn’t lived happily ever after.

      She concentrated on the memory, searching for composure. “Well, if it isn’t the famous Stef Costas.” She gave him a leisurely, intentionally insolent survey. It had been eight years since she’d seen him, aside from the nights he haunted her dreams. The years had stripped down his face to the sharp, tight lines of jaw and cheekbone, the black slashes of brow above midnight eyes, a sheaf of ebony