Again, he wasn’t quite that naïve anymore.

“Then you need something that’s going to get this woman off your case.”

He did. But what?

*   *   *

He was still pondering his options as he finished his meeting and had his driver take him home to his town house. Most of the rooms were artfully bare and tastefully decorated in a minimalist fashion. He’d hired decorators for that, the best that Manhattan boasted. But he bypassed the rest of the attractively decorated house and headed straight to the study, which he liked to call his “thinking room.” He kept the door locked so the maids wouldn’t wander in to straighten up, or pick through his art.

Because, like every seven-year-old boy in the world, Sebastian Cabral had liked to draw. Unlike every seven-year-old boy in the world, he’d never grown out of it. His family, more interested in making money or swanning about with society, had never really quite understood his need to “doodle.”

But for Sebastian, working with his hands released a lot of anxiety. He sculpted sometimes, and every now and then he painted. Mostly, though, he sketched. Not landscapes or fantastical monsters or anything like that.

Sebastian liked to sketch women. He supposed it was the red-blooded male in him that appreciated the female form in all its aspects—thin, waifish girls with big eyes, or curvy, buxom women with big smiles and bigger breasts. Sebastian drew them all.

He sat down at his drafting desk and pushed aside a stack of papers full of half-finished sketches. More sketches lined the walls of the small room, pinned up in a haphazard fashion. He pulled out charcoals and a new sheaf of paper and began to outline the gentle curve of a woman’s cheek, then began to fill in eyes, a nose, and a hairline. No one in particular, though with the right hairstyle, this could be Bettie Page. He just liked to let loose and draw. Sometimes, when he dated a woman, he’d draw her.

He’d never drawn Lisa, though.

Didn’t feel the urge to start now, either.

Chapter Two

Chelsea Hall adjusted her knee pads and then checked her elbow pads and wrist guards one last time. She wiggled her ankles, testing them, but her skates were tight. Game on.

Next to her, Kid Vicious smacked Chelsea on her purple helmet. “You ready to kick some ass, Chesty LaRude?”

“Born ready, baby,” Chelsea responded, and elbow-checked her.

Kid Vicious grunted. “You don’t play fair.”

“Fair’s for the after-party.”

The music started and the announcer’s voice reverberated through the arena. “Let’s give a warm welcome for the Broadway Rag Queens!”

With a cheer, Chelsea and the girls on her roller derby team strutted out onto the track to Destiny’s Child’s “Bootylicious.” They skated several laps, flexing their arms and showing off. One by one, the roster was called out.

“Good Whip Lollipop, number 1!”

“Morning Whorey, number 3.14!”

“Lady ChaCha, number 18!”

“Chesty LaRude, number 34DD!”

Chelsea raised her arms and waved, blowing kisses at the audience. She cocked her hip and skated on one leg, the other bent, and vamped for the crowd. Her pigtails fluttered on her shoulders and she flipped up her skirt, showing off her bright yellow panties with the NO CROSSING street sign emblazoned on them. It was fun to play up the crowd. Roller derby was a sport, but it was also about confidence and fun.

“Kid Vicious! Sandra Flea! Tail Her Swift! Gilmore Hurls! Cherry Fly! Rosa B Ready! China Brawl! Pisa Hit! Grief Kelly!”

Once the team had been introduced, they stepped off the track to their bench. The opposing team, the Diamond Devils, were the next onto the track, and they skated their intro. Chelsea put in her mouth guard and their coach, Black HellVet, pointed at her. “All right, ladies. Our starting blockers are Chesty, Grief, and Pisa. Vicious, you’re in the pivot panty, and Lollipop’s the jammer. Any questions? No? Good. Let’s do this.”

They pounded forearms, then, hooting and hollering, took their places on the track.

Chelsea was in the pack. As a blocker, she wasn’t one of the “stars” of the show. That was just fine. Blockers got the most physical on the track. While jammers skated ahead, trying to score points, and the pivots kept the pace, the blockers got to try and cause mayhem, and that was where Chelsea wanted to be. When the whistle blew, she immediately slammed herself into the Diamond next to her, then skated forward. She was known for being brutal on the track, and she put it all out there.

That was how she rolled, pun intended. For the next half hour, she blocked and cruised around the track, flinging herself at opponents and launching herself bodily when nothing else worked. She was going to have bruises aplenty in the morning, but all that mattered was the game. The Rag Queens were up by four points, but it was tight. One good jam and the Diamonds could pull ahead again. It made her lean in to her blocks a bit more, and she ended up slamming more than one girl out of bounds.

Then it was halftime, and the ladies retreated to their locker room. They crowded in, ready to discuss strategy for the second half, when all those bottles of water she’d drank before the game hit Chelsea at once. “Gotta pee,” Chelsea announced. “Don’t start play discussions without me.”

Cherry Fly groaned. “You gotta pee again? Jesus, Chesty.”

“Can’t help it. Blocking makes me have to go.”

Cherry paused. “You want company?”

Chelsea shook her head. It was just a quick trip to the john. She’d be fine. Chelsea winked and popped out her pink mouth guard, set it in its case, and then skated out of the locker room toward the restrooms. There was a toilet in the locker room, but it was under construction and smelled like Sandra Flea’s old knee pads, so she skated out to the public ones. There’d be a huge crowd there thanks to halftime, but people usually let a derby girl cut in line.

The halftime show must have been banging that night, because there was zero line at the restrooms. Probably a raffle, Chelsea mused, skating up to the door to the women’s restroom.

A hand tapped her shoulder. “Excuse me, miss?”

Her entire body froze. Her muscles locked. Blackness flicked at the edges of her eyes, and for a moment, Chelsea thought she was going to pass out.

No, no, no. You can’t. That’s when he can do whatever he wants.

Forcing herself to turn, Chelsea shrugged the man away. She didn’t know him. He was a stranger. Some guy in a concert T-shirt and a baseball cap. Looked like a frat boy.

The sight of him filled her with dread.

“You Chesty LaRude?” He held up one of her trading cards. “I’m a big fan. Can I have an autograph?”

Her mouth worked silently. She was frozen in fear. Normally Pisa, her derby wife, was at her side. She knew better than to leave Chelsea alone. But Chelsea’d been high on game endorphins and had left Pisa tightening the screws on her skates.

And now she was here alone in the hall with a strange man.

Her breathing rasped in her throat. Panic shot through her. She couldn’t breathe. Her sweaty hair stuck to her neck and she managed a small shake of her head. She didn’t think she could hold a pen at the moment if she tried.

His lip curled at her denial. “You think you’re too good for me? Fuck you.”

She wanted to say something. Protest. Tell him to go fuck himself. But she couldn’t speak. Chelsea was utterly frozen.

She had to get away. Had to. She stumbled forward, crashing into the swinging door of the bathroom. “Leave me alone,” she managed to choke out.