Brazen & Burning. Julie Leto
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on her tippy-toes to peer behind the carton of week-old skim milk, Sydney realized something.
The kid was wearing makeup.
In all the years she’d known her, from way back when Cassie’s main concern in life revolved around Beanie Babies, throughout childhood and her teen years, Cassie chose her clothes for comfort and brushed her hair only after her aunt threatened to withhold her allowance. She eschewed high school homecoming dances and proms in favor of opera night or a hockey game. So why did the levelheaded, giggle-free Cassie suddenly look like an ideal candidate for Temptation Island?
That rumor she’d heard about Cassie and a boyfriend must have been true. No wonder she was suddenly so concerned with the state of Sydney’s life. No one could be more meddling than a young woman in love.
Cassie retrieved a jug of orange juice and shut the door. “You can have your choices, Sydney. Thanks to you and my mother, I have lived a vicarious wild life I won’t ever need to experience for myself.”
Sydney raised an eyebrow, watching through bleary eyes as Cassie retrieved two glasses, filled them, and replaced the jug. She’d always known the kid was mature beyond her years and had had amazing insights since she was old enough to speak in sentences, but sometimes she still surprised Sydney. Mainly because Sydney constantly underestimated her young friend.
“You’re sure?” Sydney asked. “Most kids your age are just clamoring to live life on the edge.”
Cassie visibly shivered. “Most kids today aren’t raised on the edge.”
“Devon made sure your life was normal,” Syd reminded her.
“Thank God. But I eavesdropped on your little tête-à-têtes with my aunt during Tuesday-night poker. And I watched Entertainment Tonight at least once a week to find out which boy toy my mother had most recently dumped.”
Cassie placed one OJ in front of Sydney, then shook out two aspirin from the bottle she found in the cabinet over the sink. Sydney downed them greedily.
“It’s safe to say I’m immune from wanting to be like you or my mother,” Cassie concluded.
Sydney sighed in relief, pressing her hand to her throbbing brow. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Cassie slid back into the chair across from hers. “You look horrible—you know that, right?”
“Doesn’t come as a big surprise.”
“Picking up some nameless hunk might not be an easy feat.”
Sydney chuckled. “Maybe that wasn’t the best idea I’ve had.”
Cassie leaned back, then kicked her feet onto the chair beside hers. “Mom bought me a spa package over at Safety Harbor for graduation that I still haven’t used. I’d bet they’d fit us in on short notice—you being a New York Times bestselling author and all.”
“Oh, and the fact that your mother is D’Arcy Wilde would have nothing to do with it?”
“Couldn’t hurt…”
The idea sounded tempting, even to Sydney in her foggy condition. But after spending the day being salted, exfoliated, massaged and pampered, what then? She’d still have the same problem that she’d had for the past four days. She had no idea what she was going to do next with her life or career.
She’d made the New York Times list before, and had reaped the benefits. Her bulldog of an agent had manipulated her repeated appearances in the top fifteen of the bestseller list into a multimillion dollar contract—a contract Sydney had just fulfilled by turning in the last book. Making the list the first few times had been a rush—so much so that she had set debuting at number one as a goal to work toward for the rest of her career.
Who’d have known she’d succeed so quickly?
She felt like a fraud. A directionless, ungrateful fraud.
“I have no right to feel depressed, you know,” Sydney admitted.
“If the constitution had been written by the Founding Mothers rather than the Fathers, the right to be depressed in the face of good fortune would have been second on the list.”
Sydney grinned, even though the action made her cheeks ache. “I should be shouting from the rooftops! Please tell me I’m insane. I’d hate to think a sane person would feel so lost when they’d just achieved the one thing they wanted more than anything in the world.”
“Maybe if you had someone to share your victory with…”
“I’ve shared, sweetheart. With Devon—”
“—who was mostly too wrapped up in her wedding to really celebrate with you.”
“I called my mother.”
“And?”
“She called all her friends at the country club. They want me to speak to their ladies’ lunch group next month.”
“You haven’t spoken to them before?”
“They kept telling me I couldn’t mention sex.”
“Now you can?”
“I debuted at number one on the New York Times. I could talk about belching and farting in the fifteenth century and they’d think I was just charming. Oh, God. Please don’t tell me I just earned the right to be eccentric.”
“You’ve been eccentric since I met you. But when you’re under sixty-five, it’s called something else.”
“Don’t tell me what.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Value your life, do you?”
“As much as you value your Barbie Corvette.”
“Okay, so I shared with the people I care about most. So now what?”
“Pick a new goal?”
Sydney shook her head. What else was there? She already had the best job in the entire world. She spent long hours every day in her fantasy world, making up stories about hot sex and deep love, and someone paid her money to do it. Not that she needed the money. With her handy-dandy trust fund, she would have been set for life if she’d never typed a word. But when she’d received the first third of her legacy at eighteen, she’d started her foray into the world of stocks and investments. By the time she’d received the second third, not only was she earning a living as a writer, but she’d also doubled the investments she’d made the first time around. Sydney learned she had a head for three things—history, sex and money.
And as a successful historical romance novelist, she’d worked those strengths into a damned great career. She even enjoyed an ideal celebrity status, appearing at crowded book signings and on television and radio interviews, yet she could still go to the grocery store or the mall without being accosted.
To top it all, she served on the board of a foundation that provided literacy training in poor neighborhoods. Hell, she volunteered her time twice a month.
“What’s left, Cassie? God! I must be the most shallow woman on earth to have accomplished everything she wanted to do by the time she was thirty-two.”
Cassie shook her head. “Not shallow. Not really.”
Sydney cocked her eyebrow. She’d heard a “but” in there somewhere.
“What do you mean, ‘not really’?”
Anyone with more sense would have shrugged and begged off pointing out Sydney’s shortcomings, but Cassie, in her youthful confidence and ignorance, settled into her chair. “On the surface, you have an ideal life. Money, friends, a great career.”
“The foundation. Don’t forget the foundation.”
Cassie grinned. “Yes, you even do charitable work. You’ve been very careful and calculating, organizing