Dee starts with a giggle but ends with a breathy moan. "Enlighten me. What adjective is suitably masculine for a mighty d.i.c.k?"

Her hips mimic my thumb's movements, rotating in tight circles.

"Mighty is a good start. Scary works. Powerful, impressive are always winners."

I rub with more pressure. Her hips move faster and in ever-widening circles. She pants. "I'll keep those in mind for next time." Then she bites her lip and looks me in the eyes. "I love to f.u.c.k when I'm high."

She rises higher on her knees, lining us up.

"I have a feeling I'm going to love it too."

"s.h.i.t, that was awesome," Dee exclaims into the pillow, where she's just planted her face.

On my knees behind her, I remove condom number two with a tissue and collapse next to her. "It really f.u.c.king was."

Doggy style never disappoints.

She lifts her head and looks at the bedside clock. "d.a.m.n. I have to get up for work in four hours."

Just to clarify-this is my cue to leave. It's the nice way of saying, Thanks for the s.e.x. Good-bye. Most of my one-night stands aren't sleepovers. Unless I'm completely wiped out, I prefer to sleep in my own bed.

I stand up and start to get dressed. I zip my pants, but still shirtless, I tell Dee, "I had a great time tonight."

She rolls over to her back, making no attempt to hide her naked glory. "Me too."

My eyes trail over her l.u.s.trous, after-s.e.x-sheen-covered skin, settling on the nipple piercing that begs for more playtime. "I want to see you again."

Dee smirks. "You mean you want to screw me again."

I slip my arms into the sleeves of my shirt and admit, "Baby, that goes without saying." I pick my pack of cigarettes off the floor and put them in my pocket. "I'll call you."

She responds with a short bark of laughter and an eye roll. She grabs the silk robe and stands beside me.

"What?" I ask, slightly confused.

She shakes her head condescendingly. "You don't have to do that. I'm not the kind of woman you have to make promises to, that you have no intention of keeping. It was fun, let's just leave it at that. If I never hear from you again, that's okay too."

This isn't the reaction I expect from a chick I spent the last hours giving multiple o.r.g.a.s.ms to. Most of the time, they're asking to check my phone to make sure their digits are in my contact list. Demanding specifics-dates and times when their phone will be ringing.

Dee's att.i.tude is refreshing. And intriguing. And definitely challenging.

As we walk down her hallway, I insist, "That'd be terrific . . . except, you will be hearing from me again."

She pats my shoulder. "Sure I will. But, if it's all the same to you, I won't hold my breath."

I take her hand from my shoulder and kiss her knuckles. She watches. And the smirk falls from her face and is replaced with . . . surprise. Yearning.

"Don't hold your breath"-I wink-"just make sure you're waiting by the phone."

Then she's smiling again. She holds the door open, but before I step through it, I lean in close and kiss her cheek. "Good night Dee."

Her hand covers the spot my lips just touched. And her honey-colored eyes meet mine. With a trace of sadness in her voice she says, "Good-bye Matthew."

When she closes the door behind me, I stick around until I hear all the locks click into place. Then I head home for some well-deserved shut-eye.

Chapter 5.

On Thursday night, there's a Columbia University fundraising dinner at the Waldorf Astoria hotel. Normally, I'd send a check and skip the dinner. But Alexandra is one of the organizers, so attendance is mandatory. Although raising Mackenzie is a full-time job, Alexandra's always been an overachiever and a mult.i.tasker. Like many of the women in her station-stay-at-home Manhattanite moms with money to spare-she wants to give back to the community. Plus, I think philanthropic activities help her feel connected to the outside world when her everyday life has fallen into a black hole of Barney episodes, macaroni necklaces, and playdates that could easily turn her brilliant brain to mush. Steven says she's a lot more agreeable when she's planning an event-but, when D-Day actually arrives, she has a tendency to get stressed out. b.i.t.c.hy . . . if you will.

You've been warned.

I'm standing with Drew and Lexi, overlooking the elegantly decorated room filled with tuxedo- and c.o.c.ktail-dress wearing Columbia alums. Seems like a success to me-hors d'oeuvres are being pa.s.sed, drinks are flowing, chatter and laughter abound. Though her expression is serene, Alexandra's eyes dart around the room with the exact.i.tude of a long-range sniper, scanning for potential targets.

"Can I leave yet?" Drew asks his sister.

"No," Alexandra spits out in a way that tells me this isn't the first time Drew's submitted this request. "It's a party-eat, drink, mingle."

Drew scowls. "You've obviously been away from the party scene for far too long. This isn't a party. This is an excuse for old biddies to whip out their beaded dresses and compare the carats in their diamond rings." He takes a sip of wine. "Although, the wine is excellent. Good choice."

Lexi takes a drink from her own gla.s.s. "Wine loosens lips . . . and wallets."

"And tequila makes the clothes fall off," I offer with an eyebrow wiggle.

Just then an extra-large woman with dark, beehive-styled hair and heavy makeup, wearing a pool-table-green gown, approaches us.

Under his breath, Drew quips, "Let's hope the tequila is locked up nice and tight."

"Alexandra, my dear," she cackles. "You've outdone yourself! This soiree will be the talk of the town for days to come."

Lexi's hand presses humbly against the chest of her white gown. "You're too kind, Mrs. Sinclair."

Sinclair. I know that name. She's old money-her grandfather made a fortune in steel during the turn of the century construction boon. And her nephew, the heir apparent, is a p.i.s.s-poor CEO with a legendary c.o.ke habit. Here's a lesson for you: Money can't buy cla.s.s, but it can buy a boatload of calamity.

Alexandra turns Mrs. Sinclair's attention to me. "You're acquainted with our dear friend Matthew Fisher?"

New York society is a lot like the mob-if you're not a friend of ours or part of our thing, they want nothing to do with you.

"Ah, yes," she says, "you're Estelle's boy."

I nod my head respectfully. "Lovely to see you, Mrs. Sinclair."

Alexandra continues with, "And have you met my brother, Andrew?"

Drew, ever the gentleman, greets her with a smile. "It's a pleasure."

Mrs. Sinclair's eyes sparkle as she regards him. And she fans herself with one pudgy hand. "No, we haven't met . . . but I've heard such stories about you."

"Vicious rumors." Drew winks. "That just happen to be true."

Judging by her quick breaths and the flush of her cheeks, I'd say there's a high probability Mrs. Sinclair may actually pa.s.s out. It'd certainly add some excitement to the evening. But-she doesn't. An old friend that hasn't seen her in years hobbles by and drags Mrs. Sinclair away.

Alone once more, Drew tries again. "Now, can I leave?"

"Stop asking me that. We haven't even sat down to dinner yet," Alexandra hisses.

Drew doesn't whine . . . but he's close. And he speaks for both of us as he says, "But I don't want to be here. I came, I smiled, I wrote you a check. Unlike some people, I actually have better things to do with my time."

Before the squabble gets too heated, someone across the room catches Alexandra's attention. Her eyes widen, but her face falls . . . with disappointment. She ignores her brother and gawks. Drew and I follow her line of vision.

And that's when I see her.

Almost every guy has a woman like her in his past. For some sad sons of b.i.t.c.hes, there's more than one. The girl who f.u.c.ked him over, broke his heart, shattered his self respect. They say the first cut is the deepest . . . and she cut me straight to the bone.

Shakespeare wrote, "O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face . . ." And if I didn't know better, I'd swear he composed it with Rosaline Nicolette Du Bois Carrington in mind.

We met during our second year at Columbia, and we dated seriously for two years. Rosaline is intelligent, charming, an expert equestrian. She wasn't interested in frat parties or the bar scene, preferring instead to spend her time engaging in highbrow discussions about art and travel. I thought she was perfect: the woman I'd marry, have children with-the girl I'd love when she was wrinkled and gray, and who would love me in return.

Sally Jansen may have been the first girl I ever loved, but Rosaline . . . she was the last.

I haven't seen her since graduation. Six years. But she looks exactly the same-a heart-shaped face; cla.s.sic but full cheekbones that make her appear both sophisticated and innocent; crystal blue eyes with an exotic slant; plump, smiling lips; thick, dark-brown tresses; and a long, lean body that would bring any man straight to his knees. I watch her move across the room, her cotton-candy-pink dress swaying with every step.

"Why the f.u.c.k would you invite her?" Drew asks.

"I didn't invite her-Julian's on the board. I didn't think they'd show up."

Julian is Rosaline's husband. He's ten years older and about ten times wealthier than any of us.

"I thought they were in Europe."

"They came back to the city last week."

As Rosaline reaches our trio, Drew and Alexandra move in front of me-like bodyguards. Rosaline flashes a captivating smile-one that I used to know well. "Alexandra, Drew, it's so nice to see you. How long has it been?"

"Not nearly long enough," Alexandra replies with a deceptive smile.

This is The b.i.t.c.h, in full force. To the outside world, Alexandra is a refined lady-but simmering below the surface is a ferocious, protective person who'll pull her hair back, take her earrings off, and open up a major can of whoop-a.s.s on anyone she perceives as a threat to the people she loves. And she has a special kind of hate for my ex.

I didn't find out Rosaline was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around until after she dumped me. Getting kicked to the curb was rough, but discovering she'd been f.u.c.king someone else the entire time . . . that was utterly crushing. In the days that followed, Drew was the one who took me out, got me drunk, made sure I got laid. But Lexi . . . she was the one I cried to. It's not p.u.s.s.y to admit I cried-shedding a few tears is perfectly acceptable after your chest is ripped open and your heart is peeled like a potato.

Following in his sister's footsteps, Drew says, "I read there was a Listeria outbreak in Europe. You seem to have escaped unscathed. Pity."

Rosaline's smile stays in place as she ignores the barely veiled insults. "Yes, we enjoyed our European travels-the culture, the history. But Julian missed New York. We'll be here until the spring."

Separately, the Evans siblings are capable of throwing some deadly verbal daggers-you've seen them in action. But together? They're a tag team that would put professional wrestlers to shame.

Alexandra's voice lowers to a whisper. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, Rosaline . . . well, actually . . . I don't mind telling you at all. I've heard your Julian is having a torrid affair with his secretary." She touches a thoughtful finger to her lips. "Or was it the nanny?"

Drew adds, "I've heard he's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g them both."

Again, Rosaline's composure doesn't waver. I used to think her poise was an a.s.set-a sign of sophistication and maturity. But looking at her now, she just seems . . . unfeeling. Distant. Annoyingly pa.s.sive.

She sighs sweetly. "Men do so love their variety."

"I wouldn't know," Alexandra counters.

"I would," Drew admits. "But, then again, I haven't vowed to forsake all others."

She folds her hands demurely. "I've resigned myself to Julian's dalliances. As long as I'm the woman he comes home to, it's not a problem."

Drew was always annoyed by his inability to goad a reaction out of Rosaline, no matter how crude he was. He gets a sick sense of amus.e.m.e.nt out of being able to drive people to the brink of a.s.sault. Which is why he digs deep and says, "Until he realizes the icebox you call a t.w.a.t just isn't worth the price of admission anymore. That could be a problem."

Rosaline chuckles softly. "You always did have a colorful way with words, Drew."

And another round goes to the Stepford Wife.

"It was nice to see you both again. If you'll excuse me." Just like that, they've been dismissed. Rosaline steps around Alexandra and Drew and approaches me from the rear.

I run a hand through my hair and turn to face my heartbreaker. She looks at me kindly, sympathetically, the way a nurse would behold a patient who's recovering from a life-threatening sickness. "h.e.l.lo, Matthew."

I'm determined to show her that my recuperation is complete. "Rosaline."

"You look wonderful."

"Thank you," I reply coolly. "And you . . . haven't changed a bit."

It's weird talking to her again, even after all these years-especially after all these years. There's no attraction, no hatred, no strong emotion at all. There's some regret-a part of me wishes I could reach back in time and beat the s.h.i.t out of my younger self for being so stupid. And blind. But that's more about me. As for Rosaline? She's just someone who I used to know . . . that I never really knew at all. Even though I'm intimately acquainted with every swell and crevice of her body, she's still a stranger.

I clear my throat. "So . . . you have a son?"

Did I forget to mention that? Yeah-Rosaline didn't only screw around on me, she got knocked up. I'm fairly certain that was her plan all along. Like with the royal family, the heir and the spare? I was the spare, just in case things didn't work out with Julian. Luckily for me, his dart hit the bull's-eye first.

She smiles. "Yes, Conrad." Poor kid. "He's at boarding school in Switzerland."

I do the math in my head. "Boarding school? Isn't he, like, six years old?"

"He'll be six next month." I must look dumbfounded, because she adds, "It's crucial that he have the right start in life. His school will provide that for him."

I nod. Pointing out the extreme f.u.c.ked-upness of this philosophy really isn't worth my time. "Right. Of course it will."

And I'm just about to extract myself from the conversation when Julian Wolfe comes striding on over. He's decent looking for a guy, tall but thin, with white-blond hair and a pale complexion. Kind of reminds me of a high-ranking n.a.z.i officer.