In the Mood for Love Read Free Page A

life.
    Until last month.
    Until the spa shooting.
    Soon after, he’d crawled out of his hole long enough to hack his way into her work e-mail.
    “Not going there.”
    Heart thudding, Harper stonewalled the memory of the recent senseless crime and the subsequent cruel taunt issued by the father of her former fiancé. Edward Wilson hadn’t given up on making Harper’s life hell. He’d just allowed her a false sense of hope.
    “Bastard.”
    She hadn’t heard from Edward again since that one e-mail three weeks ago, and she couldn’t help hoping—again—that that had been his final jab. She understood his grief, but how would he ever heal if he clutched so tightly to the past? She’d asked herself that same question a million times and that’s why she worked so hard to press on. Rather than wallow, she’d kicked into high gear. She’d donned invisible armor and a virtual cape. Harper Day to save the day.
    Shoving Edward Wilson from her mind, she focused on a VH1 news bite featuring the celebrity troubled kid of the month. Not Rae Monroe, formerly Rae Deveraux. Thank God. Harper had worked magic to free the young heiress from the Hollywood gossip mill. Not an easy feat when the girl had a wacko, self-absorbed, attention-hungry former starlet for a mother. Tabloid sensation Olivia Deveraux. Just one thorn in Harper’s side.
    No longer smiling but channeling zippety-do-dah positivity, she twisted her long, thick hair into a high ponytail, snagged the water bottle off her nightstand and hydrated. She’d prefer a mug of java, but she’d nixed caffeine from her daily routine until her debilitating anxiety was more manageable. Alcohol was out, too. In her present mental state, a glass of wine induced melancholy instead of a mellow buzz.
    No caffeine. No alcohol. Plenty of exercise and sleep. She was beginning to feel like a freaking nun in addition to a freaked-out shut-in.
    Sex would take off the edge.
    Sex with Sam McCloud, the first man she’d slept with since Andrew, would be the ultimate.
    Sex with Sam would obliterate every thought in Harper’s head. She couldn’t stress if she couldn’t think. Too bad she’d sworn off the hunky carpenter along with caffeine. She’d kill for a dose of his electrifying heart-melting machismo. A Boy Scout and a bad boy rolled into one. The bad came out in bed. The best kind of bad. The kind of bad that whipped Harper into an orgasmic frenzy.
    VH1 news segued into a music video, a sexy grind of a song that made her think about the way Sam rocked her body … in bed … against the wall … on the counter …
    Desperate for distraction, Harper skimmed channels, landing on Good Morning America, hoping for a cooking or health segment and instead catching an interview with actor Dylan McDermott—who looked a lot like Sam McCloud. Only Sam was broader. Definitely more ripped. His eyes were a deeper blue and his hair, the same dark brown in need of a trim or taming. Ruggedly handsome, not pretty handsome. Mark Wahlberg/Jason Statham charismatic. Action-star hot. And he wondered why she called him “Rambo.”
    So much for distraction.
    Harper climbed on her indoor bike, wishing she were mounting Sam instead.
    “Great.”
    Why wouldn’t that man stay out of her brain, her blood? She’d been in town for a few days and she hadn’t texted him once. Texting—their only comfortable mode of communication. The strong silent type, Sam doled out casual conversation like a miser whereas Harper talked incessantly to keep from thinking too deeply. Dark things lurked in the depths of her mind. Shallow was safer.
    She glanced at her phone, thought about Sam, then nixed the thought of Sam. “Not going there.”
    She stepped up the pace, looked back to the screen. McDermott, who still reminded her of McCloud (except Dylan was laughing and Sam never laughed), was talking about his latest project. She’d never handled a big star like Dylan, but she’d handled Sam. Her fingers burned in