PROLOGUE

      SHARLAYNE KENYON threw back her head and let loose her trademark laugh, deep and sexy and somehow bawdy. “That’s what you want to call my book?” she asked when she could speak again.

      Linden Wilbert, fifty-two-year-old head of the small and eccentric New York publishing house that bore his name, regarded this magical creature with a mix of disapproval and fascination. He could well understand the power she wielded over the men in her life and those who wanted to be in her life. Much married adventuress, occasional actress, sometime model and internationally popular personality, Sharlayne was, quite simply, dazzling. She had traveled furtively to Linden’s Long Island estate to discuss her latest incarnation: author.

      The book deal, also furtive, had been struck more than a year ago after they’d happened to meet at a cocktail party.

      To this day Linden, scion of old money and the ideals of another century, could not fathom why she’d chosen him to pilot her autobiography through the literary shoals. He understood even less his own willingness to publish a tome so at odds with his usual list, which tended to be long on quality and woefully short on sales. All he knew was that he’d surprised himself by leaping at the opportunity.

      His only excuse was that publishing the memoirs of one of the most famous—perhaps the proper word was notorious—women in the world appealed to his sense of the absurd.

      Now Sharlayne turned her enormous blue-gray eyes in his direction and he melted. She was even more beautiful in person than in photographs or on film. Her face was a flawless oval, the skin creamy and unmarred by lines or dullness. Long lashes framed those incredible eyes, also accented by impeccably arched brows. The straight nose was as perfect as the rest. Full lips glistened pink and tempting.

      But her hair—that glorious soft blond mane that was her signature style—had been chopped into a short, curvy cap. It bared dainty ears and gave her an innocence he wouldn’t have imagined possible in a mature woman of her background and age, which he guessed to be early forties, although she didn’t look near it. She herself would only say she was “twenty-nine and holding.” Gazing at her, he could almost believe it.

      He refused to let himself think about her famous body. At least, he tried valiantly.

      She leaned forward, her expression one of mild alarm. “That’s a very funny title, really,” she said in her throaty voice. “But I like mine better—The Story of My Life by Sharlayne Kenyon.” She lifted graceful hands as if framing a movie shot.

      Linden gave her an indulgent smile. “Old hat, Sharlayne. You’ve led an exciting life. You deserve an exciting title.”

      She pouted prettily. “Isn’t there any way I can convince you?”

      He could think of many, but he’d vowed from the offset not to fall into this woman’s clutches. She’d never have any sincere interest in an aging, balding, boring, widowed publisher. “No way whatsoever,” he said firmly. “Shall we move on to more immediate concerns?”

      “Oh, you.” She sat upright, throwing him an exasperated glance. “I’ve almost finished the manuscript, if that’s what you want to know.”

      “Really.” He carefully concealed his astonishment. He’d expected it would take her years to write her life story without professional help. He’d offered her any number of collaborators, but she refused to even consider an “as told