Chapter 1

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Crafton Avenue.

The Pennsington Building.

Floor Seven. Flat B.

It??s close to nine o??clock in the evening. The New Year??s Eve party at Tony DeAngelo??s is one of the better ones I attend. Festive, colorful lights decorate his twelve-hundred-square-foot flat. Some of the lights flash a bright red, screaming yellow, and blue. The buffet in the dining room looks expensive with its lobster tails, Russian caviar, and imported treats from his family in Sicily: artichoke pat??, sweet tuna bottarga, and busiate pasta. Holiday decorations are still in place, and festive music plays down from overhead speakers: an assortment of pop songs, some country ones, and Tony??s favorite tunes by the one and only Diana Ross. An open bar with a handsome ginger bartender sitsto the right of the living room. Ginger smiles as he makes the signature drink: Kamikazes with a coconuttwist.

Most of Tony??s guests are strangers to me: a handsome baldy named Roger Dellafold, who plays the piano for a living; the film producer, Evelyn Bish, from California; a power couple in New Hampshire real estate, Jack and Kyle Needle; the novelist, Robert Riley; the poet, Faye Worthington; Mitchell Slander, a journalist for the New York Times. There are a variety of actors present, a painter, wealthy brokers, two architects, too many doctors to count, and Tony??s close friend and lawyer, Dash Harding. There are other guests, too: blonde bombshells, his pastor, slinky models, his older brother Andrew, his dentist, and a slew of beautiful women he has dated off and on throughout the last year. These people dance, smoke pot, pop pills, drink, and stand in circles, chatting. They all seem to be having fun: mingling, kissing, and getting to know each other. People who party. Happy.

The flat is stunning, expensively decorated with a handful of Asian silks and linens. Nothing looks cheap or skimpy. Tony has obviously spent a fortune on his decorator, Cecille Marque??his current loverof two months, possible marriage material. There are two bedrooms and two baths, a reading room filled with hardback mysteries, living room, and kitchen.

Tony has been thinking about moving away from the Ohio River, inland we say, often telling me, ??It??s cold near the water during winter. I hate it.??

My take on the situation is simple: Tony doesn??t like to stay in one place for very long, just as he doesn??t like to be with the same woman for more than nine weeks. Typical Tony.

I think Tony??s a very attractive man because of his Sicilian looks: high cheek bones, tight jaw, thick black hair, smoldering brown eyes, chiseled frame, and a toothpaste commercial smile. The guy is drop dead gorgeous. If he weren??t straight, I??d be all over him, inside him??whatever it takes to be his man. I want his life over mine. He??s a silent business partner in Gallento Wines; huge bank account; superior looks; amazing lovers who bow down to his every sexual need; faithful friends; fancy cars. Just about everything I don??t have, or at least I think I don??t have.

* * * *

I move up to the bar and meet the charming ginger, ask for a Kamikaze, and his name. Too charming. Too handsome. Totally my type because of his football frame.

??Nevin McBane.??

??Irish???

He nods, semi-winks at me, and begins to prepare my drink, half filling a cocktail glass with ice. ??It??s only fair that I ask what your name is.??

??Not everything??s fair in life.?? I chortle.

He studies me, squints??thick black hair, tiny nose, six-two, muscular with broad shoulders, lucky green eyes??and maybe likes what he sees. ??How old are you, Mr. Nameless???

??Thirty-seven. You???

??Same.?? He pours vodka over the ice and adds some triple sec and lime juice. Nevin stirs the drink and garnishes it with a slice of lime. He places it on a square napkin in front of me, winks at me again. ??Enjoy, stranger??whatever your name is, stud.??

I can??t stop looking, studying him as if he is a newfound planet in the universe. He has dimples and dotted freckles over the bridge of his nose. His eyes are a soft green, providing me with luck when I easily fall into them, and his eyebrows are bushy, orange caterpillars. His chest is as wide as the massive shoulders, with rounded pecs and hard nipples. And his abdominal area is flat, rippled, drawingmost of my attention away from his dreamy, misty green eyes.

There??s an obvious connection between our two worlds; an attraction that is drawn from light flirting.I think how our bodies can glide together under the sheets, bringing in the New Year. I??m not out to getlaid, though, at least not tonight. Truth is, sometimes I just want to get to know a guy, begin to understand his layers, absorb him, and build a friendship. If sleeping with the guy comes later, then good for me. One-night stands aren??t my thing. Life with men isn??t a game for me. Never has been. Never will be. I take the gentlemen I meet for their worth and show them respect. Games are foolish, I??ve learned, tawdry and troublesome. With age comes wisdom, and the old clich?? stands true for me.