Once the limo dropped him off, all Andrew Lyne Barrett could think about was a decent coffee and a hot shower. And bed. Solo, not shared. The marathon 69 contest with a nubile starlet du jour — his reward for enduring eleven weeks of flubbed steps, sour notes and thespian tantrums in LaLa Land — nearly caused him to miss his flight but was worth the last-minute sprint through the terminal. Things went downhill from there. Thanks to a motor-mouthed seatmate, Drew mentally waved goodbye to the red-eye nap he'd hoped for and watched it fly away like his most recent ex. The four-mile snarl on I-95 spent in captivity with the driver's transcontinental phone jabber prolonged his travel hell. 

As he lugged a pair of suitcases toward the residence's third landing, sighs sawed more sharply between the slowing shuffle of footsteps. His legs seemed to gain a pound for each of his fifty-two years. Drew wistfully thought that nothing turned back the hands of time so deceptively as feeling a hot young babe's tongue curled around his cock, especially one with Ms. West Hollywood's oral talents. He made a mental note to cut back to half a pack per day. And to book a first-floor place next year.

The key hadn't gotten to first base with the lock when an apple-cheeked blonde answered the door as if she'd lived there all her life. Scents of freshly brewing coffee and bacon wafted toward him, a savory reprieve from the hallway's stale cooking funk. 

"Welcome back, Drew." The girl beamed like a marquee at the flat's official occupant. A Kodachrome of a man's white shirt and the stunning body over which it barely buttoned flashed before his jet-lagged stare. 

Holy fuck. Have I stopped at the wrong apartment? Or did I knock back one too many Seagrams while putting up with Larry Loquacious? 

On the other hand, if this is my new neighbor, jackpot! 

His gaze navigated the aisle of shapely legs and settled happily into a front-row seat to observe the deadlocked sumo clash at her chest. He decided he was finally asleep in the back of the shuttle. He had to be.

Dreamland. Yeah. Where else would I find a babe like this peeking out of my summer-rental walkup? Wearing no bra, to boot? Take your time, driver. This old dog is enjoying the new tricks.

"Aren't you going to say hello?" she scolded mildly. Her lips brushed a stubbled cheek. No response. She snapped her fingers. "Yoo-hoo? Is anybody home?" 

Holy shit, I'm awake and out of breath — and not just from hauling my sleep-deprived ass up those stairs.

"Um, what are you doing here...?" He blinked through a recognition haze thicker than an L.A. morning until the miniature mole above her lip sharpened into focus. "Brianna?" 

"In the flesh," she grinned. "You dropped your key." She bent to fetch his overnight bag and misplaced metal from the mat; the minimal sway of her boobs bragged of bountiful youth. "Poor man. You must be exhausted. Come in. I've made you some breakfast."

Brianna! How could I have missed that one? Then again, his world was a revolving door of attractive (and not-so-attractive) women willing to turn out his lights for three minutes behind footlights. In his defense, they usually had a few years on the girl in his doorway. 

Migosh, she's grown another two inches and at least two cup sizes since last summer. She must be, what, eighteen now? Prettier by far than Ms. West Hollywood, too. 

Shame pelted his conscience. You might be a horny old dog, but not that much of a dog. Act like the adult you're supposed to be.

"Now that we've established who you are, how about answering the rest of my question?" His forced sternness was wasted on the swing of shirttails above bare legs as he followed her to the bedroom. 

She set down the bag and unfolded a luggage stand. "I'll explain later, promise. Now unpack and grab a shower. Coffee'll be ready by then." 

Too tired to argue, he shut the door after her and stripped while waiting for the water to heat. The wreck he saw in the dresser mirror reinforced his resolve to question the visitor's motives. Gorgeous or not (and she'd be feeding him, too?), this tartlet he scarcely knew had some nerve, showing up unannounced and parading around half-naked as if she were a live-in girlfriend. 

Girlfriend! Oh, shit. Sonia! Nahh, she's not due in town till Saturday. Unless she's in one of her impulsive moods?

After Drew's second divorce, from an aspiring cabaret singer who'd worn the strips off his credit cards before doing the horizontal can-can with her agent, the fiery South American film star caught his eye during auditions for Slow Burn. Though neither ultimately got a role, he introduced himself and persuaded her to trade life stories over the house Chardonnay at Louie's On Seventh. One year, two far-flung work commitments and three hundred long-distance calls later, friendship shed its clothes and tumbled onto Sonia's perfumed Pima sheets.

The clanking of pans from the kitchen reeled all thoughts back to his uninvited guest. He jumped under the spray, recalling his first glimpse of her — shaded by a honeysuckle trellis, demure in cotton candy tulle, upstaging the dickens out of the bride — a year before in a June garden as he sat among pastel-primped spectators. A glimpse lengthened to a stare to full-time surveillance. That platinum satin hair alone, spilling a superior veil over strapless shoulders, caused him to miss the ring exchange. And when she smiled at the groom, it took Sonia's sentimental squeeze to retrieve him from Neverland. 

Even then, Brianna stood half a head taller than the receiving line, and her bodice blossomed with cleavage the depth of a calla lily. He noticed the tiny mole that bobbed above her lip when she introduced herself; he relished the moments her silky hand lingered on his after the shake ritual ended. 

Even then, guilt twisted his gut as her springtime fragrance lured his libido from its lair. 

He shut his eyes against a torrent of shampoo suds and memories.

"Drew," a sweet voice cajoled. "Would you like some help?"

Blinking away liquid blindness, he turned. 

To his astonishment, Brianna stood there, studying his nakedness through the Lexan panel, her posh pink lips agape with wonder. Instinctively, his hands shielded his groin. 

Didn't I lock the door?

Without waiting for an answer, she stepped into the stall beside him, manacled his wrists with her long fingers, and coaxed them apart. 

"You don't have to hide from me," she breathed. "I've wanted you ever since we met."

Dumbfounded, he could only watch the water pelt her shirt into a translucent plaster that outed every curve and sharpness. Her hands released his and rode the clinging shirttails up her hips.

The sheer wrongness of wanting her raged through his most private veins. To his distress, he knew the secret was not only out but pointing straight at her filmy panties. No. She was easing them down as he helplessly surged in the opposite direction. 

Stop! You can still stop this. It's not too late. It's not—

"Oh, my." Her palm engulfed him in a slippery nirvana. "I knew you'd be huge. Please, let me make it feel good?"

He heard his defeated groan echo off the tile as she knelt, her tongue a flurry of filaments flying to a magnet. The groan crescendoed to a bellow when her mouth formed a sleeve of no return — and descended on him with no mercy.

Oh. Oh. Oh! 

His head reared back; an ill-timed breath seared his sinuses. Alone and coughing up a snootful of spray, he let go of his throbbing handle and cranked the one on the wall to its COLD setting. 

A polite knocking froze his towel mid-motion. "You OK, Drew?" 

"Yeah, I'm fine. Be out in a few."

Freshly lathered and rinsed, his rejuvenated reflection smiled from the steamy cupboard glass. You don't have to give up mirrors yet, old boy. He shaved the cross-country stubble, found himself fussing longer with his hair and changed his outfit twice. 

The admiring gleam in Brianna's baby blues as she poured his coffee beat the hell out of any looking glass. "How'd the play go?"

"You mean, 'Did I get to meet Sawyer Sherwood and get his autograph for you?'"

"I'm serious."

"What's there to tell? You've seen it already."

Her pert nose wrinkled. "Yeah, but that was Boston with a different cast." With fan-pop enthusiasm, she pushed the sugar bowl his way. "Is Harmon Cole as cute as his pictures? What's Layla McRae really like?"

The first sip scorched his tongue, but at least it helped him squelch the urge to tell the truth. Cole was another Bel Air slacker riding his daddy's famous coattails, while Layla, twenty-three and insatiable, lived up to her name in the sack. Having paid his dues in the industry since that first costume assistant job at twelve, Drew valued his career too highly to pass along insider info.

"Neither one complained about the long rehearsals. And they take direction well, which is the important thing. They're hard workers interested in improving their craft." 

Brianna suppressed a yawn and turned toward the stove. 

"Did Sonia join you? It is still Sonia, isn't it?" Like a burlesque curtain, the shirttails rose on a pair of lace-flossed rump cheeks as she bent over the oven door.

How the hell did she remember Sonia? 

More important, how did she squeeze that ass into those panties?

"Yeah." He hoped his color had returned to normal when she slid a warm plate before him. "I mean... yeah, we're still together, but no, she stayed in New York." 

"If I were her, I wouldn't have. A handsome guy like you, all those sexy actresses — something's gotta give." 

Well, that was a come-on in skywriting. But there's such a thing as too young and off-limits even for you, pal. 

As he wished for a thicker napkin to cover his lap, the breathless teenager returned. "You like pancakes, don't you?"

"Thanks, but aren't you forgetting something?" He set his cup on the table. 

Her mouth formed a flawless O. Was she absent-minded, playing dumb or impressed with the flex of his folded forearms? 

"You have some explaining to do," he clarified, borrowing from his role as Father Fitzgerald in Ask Not, Know Not. 

The ideal width for snugness, his groin rumbled. Here's a confession for you, Padre: I could slide between those poufy cushions all day long. 

Behave yourself!

The full-lipped circle spread into a sheepish grin. "I heard Sharyn say you'd be flying in today. I thought you might need some help getting the place organized. But Kelsey must've beaten me to it. And I haven't seen you in ages."

Kelsey, thank fuck, doesn't have your measurements, or else I'd have to find a new assistant.

"Mighty sweet of you, but that's the why. I'm still waiting for the how."

"I was hoping we could talk some more first." She sat back in the chair and knitted her hands behind her head, straining the shirt closure into a column of peekaboo puckers. 

It should be illegal for someone her age to have tits like those. 

Yeah, right. Find me the congressman who'll pass that bill. 

"Fine. We'll talk some more." He busied himself spreading butter, feeling entitled after the vegan diet inflicted on him by his California housekeeper. "Does your father know you're here?" Ted Bridges in Lloyd's Forgotten Son.

"Can't I say hello to my long-lost...?"

"Yes or no?" 

"I'm almost eighteen, you know. I have my own car now."  

Seventeen. Great. Thanks for the reminder. 

"You're pouring syrup all over the table," she giggled, bouncing to the sink for a cloth. 

Dammit. That's all I need: those tits within grabbing distance. "No. Give that to me, please. I'll wipe it up." 

"Oh, I hope you don't mind the shirt?" Misinterpreting his frown, she handed him the sponge. "I couldn't find an apron. And I didn't want to mess up my outfit." She looked down at the still-pristine cotton, bleached phosphorescent by her tan. "But don't worry. See how careful I've been?"

"So it's a no. Your father doesn't know."

"So why did you ask me?"

Migod, even that pout looks sexy as fuck on her. Wouldn't you like to put it to good use nibbling on your—

"Aren't you going to eat? I made them from scratch."

"Don't try to change the subject. I will — after you tell me how you got into my apartment." So your parents can ground you for the rest of my stay. And keep me out of trouble.

"Aren't you glad to see me? I'm so happy to see you." Both elbows on the table, Brianna leaned forward. A button slipped from its harness. The pillow-fighting combatants filled the gap in a dead heat.

"Course I am, honey. But what if I had company whenever you felt like showing up here?"

"Duh. If I heard you and Sonia having sex, I'd leave." 

Sonia might object if you stayed. I wouldn't.

Shit, I think the napkin just jumped.

"Come on, Brianna." He donned his most intimidating villain scowl — Raul in The Woman, The Whip And The Chain — and reached across the table. "Let's have whatever key you used."

"You're kinda sexy when you're mad."

Don't take the bait, old boy. 

"I'm not mad. But I can't have people waltzing in and out of here on a whim." Not even 38D kittens like you.

The shirt pocket rippled as her fingers scissored treacherously close to a nipple print and fished out the object. "There. Happy now?" 

"Thanks. How'd you talk Kelsey into giving it to you?" 

"I didn't. It's Javier's."

"Who the hell is Javier?"

"Your super."

Crap. A new guy. George would never have fallen for her line. 

"Now I'm afraid to ask." 

"I don't mind telling you." Mischief deepened her dimples. 

His fork attacked the soggy buckwheat heap. Tell me what? That he settled for sweet talk and innuendo? Or did he require a flash? 

One boob or two? 

Topless, bottomless or both? 

Hands-on or touchless?

Maybe a quick jerk or a sucking-off from those delicious—? 

"What's the matter? Aren't they good?" 

Fuck. How long have I been chewing on what inquiring cocks want to know instead of the food?

"Let's cut to the chase, Bree. What do you really want?"

"I told you." Her eyes widened to oceans of sincerity.

"Whatever it is, you were willing to jump through quite a few hoops to get it."

"I always work for what I want," she purred. 

You always get it, too; I'll bet — with or without the work.

"And I wanted to see you." Satin ribbons of platinum took turns entwining and eluding her fingers. Just like Mandy Mathers did when—

Oh shit, not the casting couch again. Not this early in the day. Not from— her, for fuck's sake. 

He cursed himself for not spotting it sooner. 

"You're here because of My Biarritz Beau. Aren't you?"

"I'm trying out for Veronique," she answered breezily, apple cheeks aglow. "But—"

The lead role. Ambitious much? "Then you already know the auditions start tomorrow at The Victorian."

"But Drew—" 

"6:30 sharp. You never mentioned you were so interested in musical comedy."

You've seen her, what, twice? Lighten up.

"I've been taking voice lessons for the last few months. Dance since I was six. But that's not—"

"That's great," he praised. "And I promise you'll get a fair shot alongside the others. Now, at the risk of playing the cranky host here, I've had a long flight, and as you said, I'm exhausted. So if you don't mind, I'll wish you good luck, and we can say our goodbyes till the tryouts. Thank you for breakfast."

She sucked in a long, breast-puffing breath as if preparing a rebuttal but mutely tiptoed from the room, a swan in retreat.

Disappointment sagged against his ribs. But he had an obligation to Brianna's family — and his reputation. And a long summer of twelve-hour workdays ahead.

A few months? She'll make a fool of herself going up against singers like Jodie Mullaney or Dotty Rivers. But ten-plus years of dance class? Maybe she could do a short solo if the choreographer thinks she has the chops. We'll see.

The bacon was cold but still crispy. Using his fingers, Drew picked up all three slices and devoured them as he stared at the space she'd vacated. Then he speared and swallowed the rest of the mushy flapjacks. 

She's not a bad cook, though. 

Coffee's damn good, too. He was pouring a refill when she reappeared, carrying rather than wearing her street clothes. 

"You're not going home dressed like that. Or do you owe Javier another installment?" His snappish thoughts slipped their reins, startling them both. 

The hurt that clouded her brow made him mumble, "Sorry." Seeking absolution, he contemplated the caffeinated incense rising from his cup. 

She laid the clothes over a chair and shrugged. In obedience, the open shirt flowed down her arms and fell to worship at her feet. 

His glance darted toward the sound, located the grounded cloud, then followed the path of least resistance. Nothing adorned her skin except for a birthmark's bronze badge on her upper thigh and two slender hammocks of tan-line lingerie.  

"Jealous?" She smiled again, proud of the brushfires her nudity kindled in his eyes.

In all Drew's decades of hoisting diet-averse divas onstage, the effort to look away from Brianna's creme-filled tits ranked right alongside them. He finally tore his gaze from their perfection only to have it sucked into a vortex below her tummy's pleasing pudge. Her mound, biscuit-pale from the lucky bikini that last molded it, framed a vertical sliver of puff-pastry layers. He salivated for a taste.

Drew's next breath felt as if he were taking it underwater. "Do you want me to say it? You're a beautiful girl, Brianna. Stunning. And it pains me to think you'd share that beauty so indiscriminately when any man would be lucky to have you. 

"But I've never given out a part this way, and I'm not about to. No exceptions. 

"Now put your...