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  He uncharacteristically allowed his eyes to wander, breaking Rule of the Road No. 1: “Make a woman feel like she’s the center of the universe.”

  A familiar face emerged.

  “Clay! Great party,” Roche effused.

  “Anton…thanks. Have you met…” He turned to the comely little thing, expecting her to say her name, but she missed the cue. “Um…this is Anton Roche.”

  “Cool,” she said.

  After an awkward pause, Clay said, “Anton invented the top you’re wearing.”

  “Really? I have three. Presents from three different men.”

  Roche’s nod had a distinctly sardonic edge.

  “Funny, though,” she giggled, “I thought you’d be gayer.”

  Clay staved off a laugh. Funny—I thought the same thing. At first.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Roche said without an ounce of contrition.

  The hint flew right past her, so Clay filled in the blank. “Anton and I have some business to discuss.”

  “Okay, cool,” she said, but her mouth continued to engage. Clay watched her lips bob and wondered how anyone could be that self-absorbed.

  Clay smiled, patted her on the shoulder and turned away.

  Roche put his mouth close to Clay’s ear. “The woman I told you about is here.”

  “Great,” Clay answered. There was enthusiasm in his voice, but not in his heart. Sure, he had listened to everything Roche had said about this wonder woman named Lara. But Clay remained skeptical. Someone was always bragging up some woman. But the matchmakers rarely, if ever, got it right. While most women who angled to join The Rotation fully understood it was a business proposition, few understood the process. The process was everything, but it was also a closely guarded corporate secret. Fast Lane thrived on mystique.

  “That’s her, over by the railing,” Roche said, pointing out Lara.

  Hmmm…tall. Not Amazon tall; a good height. Classic lines. Slim, but in a healthy way. No obvious signs of collagen or silicone. Definitely works out. Not too cool or pouty or hey-don’t-I-look-like-a-model or I-think-I’m-some-kind-of-goddess.

  Roche leaned into Clay. “You like?”

  “I do.” But why?

  There must be a reason. After all, he was Clay Creighton, and Clay Creighton knew women.

  2

  Glancing back, Lara saw Clay moving toward her.

  “The view is amazing from here,” he said.

  Lara continued to focus on the moonlit waves. “Yes, I love the ocean.”

  “Me, too,” Clay said. “But I’m not talking about the ocean.”

  Clay stepped next to Lara, close enough to feel the heat of her body.

  “That’s quite a line,” she said. “Do you use it often?”

  “No, actually, I try never to use a line more than once.”

  “That must be difficult.”

  “Oh?”

  Lara looked back at the ocean. “I know who you are.”

  “It’s true, I meet lots of women.But I don’t use a line on every one of them.”

  “Because they’re always interested?”

  “Because I’m not always interested.”

  Oh, this guy is smooth.

  “That’s not what I’ve read.”

  “Then you’ve been reading lies.”

  “I’ve been reading your website.”

  “Like I said.”

  Lara looked at him. His smile and that golden sparkle in his eyes. Easy to see why so many women are interested. She sipped her drink.

  “Roche has been telling me about you,” Clay said.

  “Nice things?”

  “I guess he thought it was up to me to find out the naughty things.”

  Lara chuckled. “Another line? You must really be interested if you’re willing to use up two.”

  “Okay, we can put the naughty things on hold. That still leaves us plenty to talk about.”

  “Where should we start?”

  “How about—”

  A coquette who packed way too much under her blouse, considering how little meat hung elsewhere from her bones, put a hand on Clay’s shoulder and her mouth close to his ear.

  “Hey stud,” she said, “wanna go play? I brought toys.” She rubbed her “toys” against him.

  Clay nodded apologetically to Lara, then turned to face the woman, who had obviously imbibed more than her skinny frame could process, and looked directly into her eyes.

  “You are delightful, but I’m already speaking with this other lovely lady right now. So, hold on to that thought, and maybe we can explore it later.” He arched an eyebrow to signal for a nearby security man to help the wobbly woman away. Then Clay turned back to Lara.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “You don’t have to apologize. I’m sure it happens all the time.”

  “Welcome to my life.”

  “Poor baby, always being hounded by women.”

  “Sarcasm. I like that in a woman.”

  “I didn’t mean to be sarcastic.”

  “Me either,” he said. “Sarcasm is honest. I don’t get a lot of that.” He turned toward the ocean. “She did have one good idea. We could go somewhere else. Get away from this loud music. All these interruptions.”

  Oh, my god! The plan’s working! And with so many hot, young bodies everywhere. What did Roche tell this guy?

  Lara’s training clicked in. She wasn’t exactly lying. But she absolutely needed to keep cool.

  “I didn’t bring any ‘toys.’”

  “I don’t know about that,” Clay said, his eyes scanning Lara up and down. “I’m not asking you to share them. We could start out just talking. Anton said you know something about race cars.”

  Clay escorted Lara past the hot tub, crammed with a dozen people who had shed most, if not all, of their clothing, to steps that vanished between huge rocks.

  “You’re not going to leave your own party?”

  “You know about that rule?” Clay beamed. “I have another rule that takes precedence in this case: Never pass up a chance to spend quality time with an alluring lady.”

  “That’s a rule I don’t want you to break.”

  They descended to just above where the waves rammed the cliff and shattered into billions of crackling, foamy bubbles. They crossed a bridge over some jagged rocks and approached two wide glass panels. Clay clicked a button on a key fob and the panels slid apart.

  He extended a hand to help Lara up a step. “Welcome to the War Room.”

  * * *

  The War Room had a decidedly retro-lounge feel, about as guy as you could get, with sports memorabilia dominating the décor. So much stuff. Footballs signed by the quarterback of every Super Bowl champion. Helmets. Goggles Michael Phelps wore while winning a gold medal at the Olympics. A seat from a classic Porsche. And photos of Clay with star athletes, world leaders and movie stars. Lots and lots of photos. Clay with LeBron. Clay with Venus. With Barack. Stephen Hawking. Vin Diesel.

  Clay crossed over to a bar, where he punched a few numbers to make music play from acoustically perfect hidden speakers. “You like Esquivel?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Brandy?”

  “Why not?”

  “I have Remy and Camus.”

  “Either one.”

  Clay held up a heart-shaped bottle. “The Camus comes from a single vineyard from the Borderies district.”

  “Sounds great.” Lara wasn’t lying about Esquivel. She associated the avant garde Mexican jazz pianist with her father, who had played his records all the time. Brandy she knew less about.

  Clay put two amethyst-colored crystal brandy snifters on the bar and started to pour, but stopped abruptly. “You know what? Let’s go with the Remy.” He put the stopper back into the Camus bottle, unceremoniously tossed out the shot of cognac he’d already poured, then got out a new snifter and a striking decanter that looked liked it was made of quicksilver.

  “Louis the Thirteenth,” Clay said. �
�Black Pearl.”

  Lara could tell from his tone that this was something special. “Black Pearl. Wow,” she said, trying to sound knowledgeable.

  Clay poured about a shot and a half into each tulip-shaped glass and handed one to Lara. He swirled his, then sniffed it. Lara followed suit, and found it pleasantly aromatic. They pinged glasses and sipped. It tasted velvety and smooth, completely lacking in the throat-clenching bite that years ago had moved Lara to swear off brown-colored liquor.

  Not as bad as I thought it would be. “Exceptional,” she said.

  “There’s a story about a Japanese businessman who paid $34,000 for one bottle,” Clay said.

  “Thirty-four thousand?” Lara felt instantly guilty for thinking she might not finish what was in her glass.

  “I didn’t pay that much,” Clay said reassuringly. “Connections.”

  Lara peered into her glass.

  “So, do you like it?” Clay asked.

  “Oh, it’s great. I mean…Louis the Thirteenth. It doesn’t get any better.”

  “I meant the room.”

  “Oh.” Lara looked around. “It could—”

  “—use a woman’s touch?”

  “If this is the place you bring women when you want to impress them.”

  “Actually, this is where I go when I don’t feel like impressing anyone.” He was as creamy and smooth as the ganache in a Lindor truffle. And just as much a threat to the heart. Lara was sure he could make any woman feel he was her destiny.

  A temporary destiny.

  “So,” Lara said, “you’re not trying to impress me?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  Lara noted his wry smile. “I guess I should be impressed that you thought to bring me here.”

  Clay raised his glass to her before taking another sip of cognac.

  “This is impressive,” Lara said as she turned to the seat from the Porsche. “From a 908 Spyder, right?”

  “Talk about impressive.” He stopped short.

  “What?”

  Clay pointed to his ear. “The music.”

  The marimbas and horns and the interplay of a man’s and a woman’s voice made Lara nostalgic. She also knew what came next—and sang it out loud.

  Clay had the same idea. They both laughed.

  “I’ve never known any woman who knew that song by heart,” Clay said. “Or one who could tell me where that car seat came from.” He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Lara and studied the seat. She relished the touch of cotton on her bare arm.

  “So, this particular seat,” he said, “came from the car that took Targa Florio in ’60. The owner gave the seat to my dad, so it’s kind of special to me.”

  Lara perked up. She knew about the annual race through the mountains of Sicily.

  “My father was a big racing fan,” she said. “He took me with him to races and car shows. When I was eight, he somehow wangled a chance to take a couple of laps at Oxnard in an Austin Healey.”

  “Those are fast,” Clay said.

  “I remember the wind blowing through my hair, the grandstand swirling by in a blur.”

  She remembered more than that. She remembered her father positively glowing through the entire ride. But she also remembered that, as easy as it would have been for him to have become lost in the moment, he had offered to let his little girl move the shifter as he powered down into a turn. Little gestures like that set a standard of behavior toward females that no other man in Lara’s life ever met.

  “Anyway, I look around and see racing. Football. The Fast and the Furious guy,” she said. “But I don’t see anything related to war.”

  “Everything’s related to war. On some level, at least.”

  “One tussle after another?”

  “One person wants something. Another person wants something else. Or maybe they both want the same thing. So they compete. Do battle. Tussle.”

  “Two people can’t want the same thing and work together to get it?”

  “Sure. But there’s always going to be a third person who feels left out.”

  “Somebody wins, somebody loses?” Lara tapped a New England Patriots helmet. “That’s what it’s all about?”

  “Ah, you’re a win-win kind of person. More?” He held up the Remy bottle.

  “No, I’m good.”

  Clay poured himself more cognac. A little less than the first time.

  “I have this very rare bottle of brandy because I outmaneuvered other people who wanted it just as much. All the guys who signed those footballs over there? They and their teammates got really big rings. Guys on other teams got a pat on the back. The driver of that car won a big trophy at Targa; a bunch of other drivers went home empty-handed.”

  Lara traced Tom Brady’s signature on the Pats helmet. “I’ll give you sports and business. But love?”

  Christ, I can’t believe I said the L-word.

  “So you’ve read my blogs. You want to put that on?” Before Lara could answer, Clay slipped the helmet onto her head.

  “It’s so big!” She spun it so she was looking through the ear hole. Clay laughed and pulled it off.

  Lara combed her fingers through her hair, but one errant lock wouldn’t straighten. Clay flicked it into place. Lara’s lips curved into a Mona Lisa smile.

  “The thing about love,” Clay said, “is that everyone wants love to be one big ‘happily ever after.’”

  Lara thought about how her father had adored her mother, even after she bugged out for good on Lara’s seventh birthday. She turned away from Clay. “I don’t know about that. But it doesn’t have to be a war.”

  “What is war?” Clay grew more animated. “People trying to get what they want. Jockeying for control. Looking to impose their will on someone else. That doesn’t happen in relationships?”

  Lara turned back around. “Sure, but if they’re honest with each other—” A surge of guilt shot through her, as though she had touched an electric fence.

  “Forget about war for a minute,” Clay continued. “Think about…a football game. Football has willing participants who agree to observe rules and boundaries, and all the various parties are thinking every minute about what they have to do to gain the upper hand. Sometimes you go for the quick strike; other times it’s best to go slow and break down the adversary’s resistance.”

  “Whoa! Adversaries? In football and war…but in a relationship? You actually believe two people in a relationship are adversaries?”

  “You actually don’t?”

  They were in my sham of a marriage.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t want this to be a downer,” Clay said.

  Lara knew her aura always got darker when she thought about her marriage. She could feel it. “No, I’m sorry,” she said. “This is all very interesting.”

  “I got carried away,” Clay said, touching Lara’s hand. “Maybe war’s too strong a word. People play games, start playing for keeps. Playing for pride. They try to get around the rules. Hit each other hard. Get nicked up. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “But, in war, there can be only one winner.” Lara walked to the open door and listened to the waves. “Or no winner.”

  “You’ve heard of Sun Tzu?”

  Lara turned around.

  Clay started, “Know thy self—”

  Lara finished, “Know thy adversary.”

  Clay walked up to Lara. “A thousand battles…”

  “A thousand victories.”

  “So maybe it’s not such a bad thing, thinking about love as war.”

  Lara held out her glass. “Maybe I would like a little more of this.”

  Clay smiled and took the glass to the bar. Lara sat on a stool across from him.

  “You know,” Lara said, “maybe the adversary you’re talking about isn’t the other person. Maybe it’s something the two people are battling in themselves.”

  Clay put the snifter in front of Lara. “Like what?”

  Lara swirled the glass and watched the content
s settle. “Whatever’s preventing them from loving someone else.” She took a sip of cognac without looking at Clay.

  Clay pursed his lips and tilted his head. “I never thought of it that way. I might have to rethink everything. Reacquaint myself with old Sun Tzu.”

  Like the part that says, “Secret operations are essential in war; the army relies upon them to make its every move”?

  “Don’t do it on my account,” Lara said. “You have an image to uphold.”

  “Yeah—Clay Creighton, manly man among men. The kind of guy who gets a bump, spits on it and hustles his ass back onto the field.”

  Lara laughed. “Okay, now I believe you’re not trying to impress me.”

  “Tough guys don’t impress you?”

  Lara drank the rest of the cognac in her glass. This is actually a lot better than I thought it would be.

  “You know,” Clay said, “we don’t have to be so serious. It’s a big world. We should have plenty to talk about. More?”

  Lara put the glass down. “Why not?” she said. “I mean, Black Pearl.”

  * * *

  “That’s it?” Gina Wray adjusted her cat’s-eye glasses and moved papers around to uncover her cigarette lighter. “You spent an entire night with Clay Creighton, and all you did was talk?”

  “That was the plan,” Lara retorted. “You said I should leave him wanting more.”

  From where she sat, Lara could see the intersection of Fairfax and Beverly. The bustle of the crowd contrasted with HardCoreGrrrls, a lean operation with only two employees. After her divorce, Lara had turned to the online community of women whose ex-husbands and lovers had, like Kyle, thought The Rotation made it okay to maintain harems. Though she never went into detail, Gina had clearly been on the frontline of the relationship wars.

  “No, no. That’s good. It’s just, I can’t imagine too many women spending a night with Clay Creighton without doing anything more than…” Gina paused to light a cigarette. With her platinum five-point bob, she looked like a femme fatale from a ’60s spy flick. “I suppose it would not have been a good idea to have fucked him right there on that big ol’ overstuffed couch.”

  Actually, that would have been a great idea. Just not at that moment.