Just One Night(6)

articles?”

“Oh, come on. It wasn’t just about that,” he said, holding out a placating hand.

She slapped it away. “You know you’re hot.”

She continued to stare at him, and he relented. “Okay, and it’s a little bit like

bedding a Bond girl, you know? Bragging rights, baby.”

“No, I don’t know. I’m not your Bond girl,” she snapped, trying to push him closer

to the door and out of her cab. “And I’m definitely not your baby.”

“Jesus, what’s your deal?”

The guy looked confused, and somehow that just made it all worse. He genuinely

had no clue that beneath the sex expert lay Riley McKenna the person. Or maybe

he did know, and he didn’t care.

She couldn’t even get that mad at him. After all, she wasn’t exactly dying to know

the person beneath the boring brown hair and ugly Italian shoes either.

“Christ, if you treat all guys this way, I don’t know how you get any material for

your slutty articles.”

Maybe she could get a little mad at him. Still, she refused to let her expression

change. No way was she letting him know he’d hit her weak spot. She hadn’t

revealed it to anybody, and she wasn’t going to start with a too-tall douche bag.

The taxi driver had figured out there was no budding romance in the backseat

and had pulled over despite the traffic having started to move again.

“Out,” she said again.

“This is nuts,” he muttered. “This was supposed to be an easy lay, and instead

I’m getting dumped in the middle of a rainstorm.”

Easy lay, my ass.

“Careful with your shoes!” she called as he slid into the wet night.

She saw his middle finger raised seconds before the door slammed.

Riley sucked in a breath. Mr. Good Enough just became Mr. Good for Nothing.

The cab resumed its slow crawl home, and Riley stared unseeingly out the blurry

window, feeling nothing and everything all at once.

Anger. Regret. Confusion.

She’d done it again. She’d royally screwed up a chance to actually experience

what it was she wrote about.

But he hadn’t been the right one.

Because with the right one, she wouldn’t be scared. With the right one, she knew

she wouldn’t need to hide the truth.

And the truth was a whopper.

There was a running joke at the Stiletto office that Riley’s sexual partners

outnumbered the New York City pigeon population.

But the truth was far worse.

The truth was, she could count her sexual encounters on one hand.

On one thumb, actually.

Because Riley McKenna, sex expert extraordinaire, was exactly one tepid, beer-

fueled college encounter away from being a virgin.

But that wasn’t even the real problem, she thought as she pulled out her

cellphone and turned it on. The problem was that the reason for her near-virgin

status came down to one very sexy, very off-limits Sam Compton.

The only man she’d ever wanted. And the one man in New York City who didn’t

want into her pants.

She glanced down at her phone. Nothing from Sam, but there was one more from

her mother. You did that THING, didn’t you?

Riley rammed her head against the headrest. You know, Mom? I think I did.





Chapter Two


For most New Yorkers, the chance to escape upstate was a welcome breath of

fresh air. A chance to get away from the fast pace and frenetic energy of the city.

For Sam Compton, going upstate meant old cigarette smoke, stale crackers, and

nonstop guilt trips.

He’d rather be anywhere else. Hell, driving Riley and her friends to the freaking

outlet mall had been better than this, and that included a high-pitched debate on

the advantages of waxing over shaving.

The view in the rearview mirror had been worth it though. Riley had been wearing

this purple dress that kept climbing up her thighs …

Knock it off. She was on a date last night. With a guy she actually liked.

Who also happened to be a guy Sam would like to punch, but that was pretty

much par for the course when it came to his feelings on Riley’s men. He’d learned

over the years to deal with it.

His mother let out a rough smoker’s cough, drawing Sam’s attention back to the

family obligation at hand.

He made the trip every couple of months or so, and depending on his mother’s

mood—and sobriety level—that was either too much or not nearly enough to

make her happy.

His mother always seemed to want the opposite of whatever it was Sam was

currently doing.

“I guess you can just set it on the shelf over there,” Helena Compton groused.

“Don’t know why you brought it. You know I only drink gin and beer.”

Sam’s fingers tightened briefly on the bottle of whisky he’d brought with him,