"Nice of you to join us, Concepcin," Martha said with a sarcastic snarl. She tapped her watch-a cheap Gucci copy-and added, "Two more minutes and you would have found yourself out of a job."

"Sorry, Miss Crabstone," Concepcin muttered. "The traffic, it was bad."

"Then leave home earlier," Martha said sternly. "Your excuses are becoming ridiculous."

"So sorry," Concepcin said, lowering her eyes, for she could hardly stand to look at the horrible woman who always talked down to her as if she were dirt on the street.

"Anyway," Martha continued, with a brisk clap of her hands, "there is work to get done. Suite 701 has had the Do Not Disturb sign on since last night. Use your passkey and go in there."

"But if the Do Not Disturb sign is on the door-"

"Take fresh towels and get yourself in there," Martha interrupted. "You know my policy: if a sign is on longer than fifteen hours, we should see what's going on."

Concepcin gave a reluctant nod. The last time she'd entered a room with a Do Not Disturb sign, she'd been confronted with two naked men having sex on the floor. She shuddered at the memory.

"Very well, then," Martha said, clapping her large hands together again. "Get moving. I don't have all night to stand here telling you what to do."

Martha left the room. Concepcin had already worked her daytime job, and now she had another eight hours ahead of her. She'd be lucky if she got home by two A.M., and then she had to be up at six to fix her children breakfast and get them off to school.

She was tired and depressed and often wondered how her life had turned out to be such sheer drudgery. Once she'd been voted the prettiest girl in her high school. Now, ten years later, she was probably the ugliest. Or at least, that's the way she saw it.

After making sure everything she needed was on her cart, she slipped a bar of soap and a small container of bubble bath into a secret compartment in her purse, and set off to clean her quota of rooms.

Suite 701 still had the Do Not Disturb sign on. Concepcin listened at the door and heard nothing. She hesitated before inserting her passkey, then opened the door a crack. Still no sounds.

Perhaps the occupant or occupants had gone out and forgotten to remove the sign. Or maybe they were asleep or-God forbid-having sex in the bedroom.

Concepcin entered slowly. The living room was empty.

Warily, she checked out the guest toilet, then headed for the bedroom. The door was closed. She knocked-not too hard-and called out, "Maid service. Clean towels."

Nothing.

Martha Crabstone would expect her to investigate further, but surely hotel guests were entitled to their privacy?

Not according to Martha. She had strict rules, and everyone was expected to obey them. To not do so would bring the wrath of Martha full upon them, and nobody wanted that.

Very carefully, Concepcin pushed open the bedroom door and peered inside.

Again, nothing.

The large double bed was neatly made; everything was in place.

Concepcin was pleased. One less chore to take care of.

Idly, she wondered what it would be like to have someone do everything for you-make your bed, clean your toilet, cook your food-or to order room service if you were lucky enough to stay in a luxury hotel.

It suddenly struck her that the room looked unused. There were no personal items on display, no messy newspapers and magazines lying around, no jars of face cream or half-full plastic bottles of water on the bedside table.

She moved over to the closet and gingerly pushed it open.

No clothes. Just a row of empty hangers and a courtesy tray offering dry-cleaner bags, slippers, and a hotel hair dryer.

It occurred to Concepcin that the hotel guests of suite 701 were no longer in residence. They'd probably done a midnight flit and not paid their bill.

Concepcin couldn't help smiling to herself. Martha Crabstone would be one angry woman-she'd take it personally that it had happened on her floor.

Before leaving the suite, Concepcin decided she should check the bathroom to see if perhaps they'd left a tip for maid service. It was highly unlikely, but just in case ... She opened the bathroom door and froze.

Her scream of terror reverberated against the marble walls.

Then she fainted.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

The day passed and Denver did not hear another word from Bobby. It was enough already; she was frustrated and angry. Reaching for her cell, she called Sam and told him she was on her way over. Why not? Bobby was obviously having his own kind of fun.

Arriving outside Sam's apartment, she didn't feel guilty at all. Why should she? Her boyfriend was in Chicago screwing around. She was upset, and rightfully so.

There were times she wished she'd never gotten involved with Bobby. She'd had a crush on him since high school-where she'd watched him from afar. He was the most popular and handsome senior and all the girls had lusted after him.

Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos.

Now here they were, years later, living together.

The question was-were they right for each other?

It was a question she kept asking herself.

She could smell the pasta sauce before Sam opened the door. The delicious aroma lingered in the air, tempting her inside.

Sam greeted her warmly with a kiss on both cheeks. "Here she is, my favorite muse," he said, wearing a nonsensical I Ate the Sheriff apron over his clothes.

She remembered the first time she'd run into him in New York. He'd been leaving the apartment building where Annabelle and Frankie lived. As Annabelle's father's lawyer, she was in town with orders to bring them back to L.A. Sam was all wrapped up against the icy cold in a striped scarf, knit hat, and long khaki army coat, whereas she was freezing her ass off, having forgotten to bring warm clothes. As an L.A. native, she didn't even own any. They'd exchanged a word or two before he'd headed down the block to a local coffee shop-where later she'd bumped into him again. This time he was hunched over his laptop, and after a while, they'd got to talking. Before long she'd told him who she was looking for and that they weren't around. To help her out, Sam had googled Frankie and gotten her his cell number. She'd called Frankie and he'd informed her that he and Annabelle would not be available to fly back to L.A. with her until the next morning. Sam had once again helped out and suggested that she spend the night at his place.

So she had, and one thing had led to another....

This had all taken place before Bobby. It didn't matter; Sam would always have a special place in her heart. She still had the striped scarf and knit hat he'd given her on that fateful day in New York.

Sam's apartment was like Sam himself: low-key, comfortable, and welcoming. There were books piled everywhere, along with DVDs and stacks of cooking magazines.

"Nice place," she said, looking around.

"It'll do," Sam said, casual as ever. "It has that famous L.A. view and a cozy guest room, which means that if you and Bobby ever get into a fight, you know where to come."

"We're not fighting," she said quickly.

"Never thought you were," Sam replied. "Where is he, by the way?"

"On a business trip," she said shortly, not about to fill him in.

"The club business, right?"

"That's what he does."

"Y'know, Denver, if you and I were together, I'd never leave you for a second," Sam said, opening a bottle of wine.

"Hmm. That sounds really ... suffocating," she said, trying to make a joke of it.

"Ah, but think of all the meals you'd enjoy," Sam said, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "You know I'm a master in the kitchen."

I shouldn't have come here, she thought. I should have gone over to Carolyn's and bitched to her about Bobby.

Although that would not have been the best of plans either. Carolyn would probably have riled her up even further with one of her "all men are dogs" speeches.

"Sit down, relax," Sam said, handing her a glass of red wine. "I'm sure you've had a busy day."

"I can't stay long," she stated. "So if you have questions about your script, you'd better start asking now."

"What's your rush?" he asked, clinking glasses with her. "I thought you mentioned Bobby was away."

"He is," she said, becoming flustered. "But I have a killer workload to go over, so like I said-I can't stay long."

"All work and no fun."

"Bobby and I have plenty of fun," she stated defiantly.

"Drink up, lady. You're about to taste the best sauce outside of Little Italy."

Two hours later she was still there, delightfully satisfied after a dish of Sam's delicious pasta smothered with his special Bolognese sauce, accompanied by three glasses of excellent red wine.

"You haven't changed a bit," he said, giving her a long meaningful look as he settled on the couch next to her.

"Nor have you," she replied, wishing she'd gone a little easier on the wine. He'd removed his offending apron, and he was looking pretty good in a long-sleeved shirt and casual pants. Not dazzling like Bobby, but extremely attractive in his own particular quirky way. She remembered their time in New York, and how good it had been. Comfortable and warm. Sam made her feel good and very secure. Nothing wrong with that.

"Maybe I should be going," she murmured.

"Maybe you shouldn't," he responded.

"But-"

"But what, Denver?"

And before she knew it, he was leaning toward her and they were kissing-long blissful kisses.

For once all thoughts of Bobby and his apparent bad behavior drifted away.

There was something about Sam....

Fifteen million dollars. How was he supposed to slide a cool fifteen million past Rafael?

Alejandro began plotting and planning. He knew that Rafael considered him to be nothing more than a joke-a playboy only out to have a good time. However, when Alejandro wanted something, he could be a sly fox, and Alejandro was determined to make a movie. Therefore, nobody was going to stop him-especially Rafael.

He decided that he had two choices to raise the money for his movie.

Choice one: call his father in Colombia and tell him that he'd found his calling in life and that he was on track to produce a movie, that all he needed was the financing.

Choice two: go behind his father's back and make a deal with one of Pablo's rivals to import their wares into Los Angeles. They'd jump at the opportunity to screw Pablo Fernandez Diego-especially if the screwing involved his son.

After thinking it through, he realized that it was not such a smart idea. Crossing Pablo could only lead to major trouble. Besides, he, Alejandro, was the heir to everything, which meant that choice one was his only option. Besides, fifteen mil would mean nothing to Pablo Fernandez Diego. His drug business brought in billions. Why would he refuse his son the chance to make his own millions?

Alejandro continued thinking. What if he promised his father an executive producer credit? Then tempted him with stories of all the beautiful and available actresses Pablo could meet and make love to. Pablo enjoyed female company, so surely a string of women, a change of scene, and his name on a Hollywood movie would be lure enough. How could Pablo possibly resist?

First Alejandro realized that he would have to deal with Rafael, convince him that making a movie was a lucrative business. Rafael had Pablo's ear, so with him on board it would be easier to obtain Pablo's approval.

The problem was that Rafael was an uptight snake who watched over Alejandro's every business move, and strongly disapproved of his freewheeling lifestyle. Plus Rafael was desperate to get home to his girlfriend and son back in Colombia.

It occurred to Alejandro that it was time to bring Rafael in from the cold, soften him up, make him forget his annoying girlfriend, give him a taste of what he was missing out on. And who was the perfect person to do that?

Willow Price, of course.

Willow was Alejandro's secret weapon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

Driving like a madman was M.J.'s signature style. Why stop for a red light when nothing is coming in the opposite direction? As for pedestrians-they took their life in their hands when crossing in front of M.J.'s vehicle. He'd gotten countless tickets, although fortunately for him, nothing ever stuck. He always had a ready excuse, and for some reason or other most cops seemed cool with him.

They made it to the airport in record time. Upon arrival, M.J. was all about parking the car and escorting Bobby into the airport.

Bobby quickly assured him it wasn't necessary. "Get your ass back to the club," he insisted. "It's more important that you check on the receipts for last night, find out how we did. Stop worrying about me. I'm feeling fine now. I'll call you when I get to L.A."

"You do that," M.J. said. "Meanwhile, I'll be doin' some investigatin' of my own."

"Thanks, bro," Bobby said, jumping out of the car. "Much appreciated."