No Strings Attached Read online

Luke and Lily, together as a couple, at the share house. Her hideaway.

  After slamming the refrigerator, she’d fled, raced out the back door, down the beach to the water’s edge.

  Back in Boston, the awful day Luke had told her he’d found somebody else, Harper believed that if she saw him and his new “soul mate” holding hands and swapping saliva, the sight would send a knife to the heart. A pain so deep, death would be welcome. So she’d left Boston, avoided any possibility of running into them. Apparently, escape wasn’t in the cards.

  But a funny thing happened on the way to death-by-heartbreak, or maybe it just happened on her sprint from the house to the beach: She didn’t die. She didn’t even feel like dying. She’d seen her ex, she’d taken in Lily’s skinny arm coil around his waist, and yeah, it reminded her of the way she and Luke used to walk with their hands slipped into each other’s back pockets. That sight alone should have flattened her. But here she was, still standing. Digging her toe into the muddy sand, kicking it into the water.

  She could breathe just fine. She could breathe fire.

  Harper turned her back to the water and stalked toward the house. She needed a word with Luke, a little face time. She needed to barge right in on their reconciliation scene, Katie’s and Lily’s—and yank the boy away. “You don’t mind if I borrow him?” she’d ask, not intending to wait for an answer.

  Somehow, some way, Luke was going to give it up, explain to her what went wrong, why exactly he’d dumped her. What had she done to make him leave without warning, to render undone everything they had together?

  And for Lily? How had this spoiled superficial bitch become his soul mate, his muse, forcing him to discard Harper like some crumpled-up verse that’ll never be a poem, that isn’t working?

  It almost didn’t matter what he said, she reflected, stomping onto the backyard deck. Just getting him to admit he’d shafted her was enough—and that the reason could no way have been sex. That would be just so trite, such a cliché! The Luke she knew and adored was just deeper than that; their relationship had meant so much, hadn’t needed sex to prove it.

  Harper had her hand on the back doorknob when she stopped suddenly. There was music playing. Norah Jones’s jazzy romantic song: “Come Away with Me.” The song had been this huge hit, could’ve been coming from any radio, anywhere. But Harper knew exactly where it was coming from. This was the live version, from the CD she’d bought for Luke.

  She walked around the side of the house, to where Lily had parked her gas-guzzling status-symbol Esplanade SUV. Luke was in the driver’s seat, his head bent forward, fiddling with the CD player. Had he meant for Harper to hear it? Was he summoning her?

  No, this was her deal now. She flung open the passenger door and climbed in the car. She was confronting him—not the other way around.

  “Harper!” His voice caught in his throat. Good, he hadn’t seen her coming. The next thing he’d do was run his fingers through his silky hair; it’s what he always did when he was nervous. That much hadn’t changed.

  But she had. Once, Luke’s lopsided smile would’ve sent her reeling. Now, it just looked dumb. He mumbled, “I had no idea you were here. That was so not cool. I’m really sorry.”

  Not, “How are you?” Not, “I was such a shit.” Not, “I’ve made a huge mistake, and now that I see you, I realize it.” What had she expected? Harper was in shapeless, oversize cutoffs and a ratty T-shirt; Lily, decked in a sexy designer mini that left little unexposed. When she’d been with Luke, it had been a total mind-meld, the solace of true understanding of each other, combined with the rush of creating something together.

  Lily offered him …? Obvious, much?

  What she’d needed to know only a few minutes ago—What are you doing with her? How could you leave me for her? What does she have that I don’t? What did she use that I didn’t?—was painfully clear. As transparent as Luke’s trite little heart. Sex. All along it had been sex.

  Harper’s eyes flitted to the dashboard, to a piece of folded-up paper. It was familiar-looking, the orange crinkly border distinctive. Funny Lily would have the same kind of paper as her old journal. Harper’s heart seized as understanding dawned. Before Luke could stop her, she grabbed it.

  Some people come into your life,

  and are gone forever.

  Some people come into your life

  and stay forever.

  Some people come into your life

  and leave footprints on your heart,

  and you are forever changed.

  He’d used … Wite-Out? At the top, where she’d written “Dear Luke,” he’d substituted “Dear Lily.” And where she’d signed it, he’d whited out her name and signed his own.

  “Wait!” Luke frantically tried to wrest the poem from her. “That’s not—”

  Harper didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  And then she knew everything she needed to know: Luke Clearwater wasn’t worth wasting any emotion on whatsoever.

  Mandy’s Big Break

  She was shivering. It wasn’t just the goose bumps raised on her bare arms and uncovered shoulders, or her fight to keep her teeth from chattering; Mandy Starr’s chills ran to the bone. Something was not kosher in downtown Denmark, or whatever that expression was.

  “Perfect! Oh, per-fec-tion, you are de-lec-table!” Joe Lester, the photographer Tim had introduced her to, was practically salivating as he ogled her through his camera lens. The emotion—if you could call it that—was seconded by Joe’s “assistant,” Skeever, who leered on approvingly. “Ain’t she sweet,” drooled the balding lump of lard, staring at her from the corner of the room. “Ain’t she a treat.”

  Mandy stifled the urge to march up and drop him.

  What was this mound of shit doing, anyway? Weren’t assistants supposed to adjust the lighting, futz with those umbrella-things? Or at the very least, brandish a hairbrush, offer her a bottle of mineral water, or hello, lip gloss, anyone? Weren’t they supposed to be assisting? The schlub leaning against the wall, hairy belly protruding from his too-short T-shirt, was a just a pig.

  “Hey, Joe,” she called to the photographer, “I’m freezing. Can we take a break so I can put a sweater on? Change outfits? I brought a real cute shrug.”

  “Not now,” he responded, his eyes never leaving the digital camera. “Can’t interrupt the creative process. Now, lower the strap on your other shoulder.”

  For the first set of photos, she’d chosen to pose in one of her favorite dresses, a designer copy of a lime green silk and satin sheath. The color brought out her eyes, the style—fitted bodice with a layered ruffle skirt—hinted at her curves. The shoulder straps were dotted with faux crystals, and Mandy liked them just the way they were. “If I pull them down,” she pouted, “it changes the whole style of the dress.”

  “For the better, I assure you,” Joe replied cheerily. “Now, be a good girl and walk toward me. Play to the camera.”

  Mandy did as instructed, tilting her chin up, keeping her gait slow and steady, like a model on the catwalk.

  “Nice, nice,” the photographer murmured. “Now, raise the dress up on one side so we can see some thigh.”

  I don’t think so, she wanted to say, but didn’t dare. Instead, she hoisted the hem a skooch. Enough to satisfy his “creative process.”

  “You’re a natural, you know that?” Joe favored her with a smile. Mandy tried to gauge the truth in his eyes, this skinny dude with the soul patch and longish sideburns. “You’re gonna go far in this industry, I can tell.”

  Mandy had longed to hear those words, yearned to hear them, rehearsed hearing them, her whole life. Back in the housing project, she’d stare into the mirror. There, she saw the classy, slim beauty inside the layers of childhood fat. She’d close her eyes and hear the fawning compliments, instead of the angry arguments between her parents on the other side of the apartment wall.

  “I know talent when I see it, sweetheart, and you’re the real deal,” Joe reiterated.
r />   So why wasn’t she tingling with delight right now?

  Joe came up to her and ran his fingertip across her shoulder blade. If he noticed her cringe, he didn’t show it. “You’re gonna be a big star one day. And you can take that to the bank.”

  Skeever put in, “Listen to the man. He’s a star-maker.”

  Mandy tried to shake the unease, and the chills. “What other stars have you discovered?”

  Joe grinned and stroked his soul patch with his thumb. “Not so sure you’d know their names—they changed ’em for showbiz—but you’d know their work if you saw it. You seen the movie Double Trouble? Or Fly Me to the Moon? Or Ride ’Em High?”

  Mandy knew the name of every movie she’d ever seen. These weren’t among ’em. Still, she tried to relax. Joe was a professional. He worked with Tim on the crew of Skinny Dipping, the big movie filming on Martha’s Vineyard.

  Tim had told her that photo gigs for aspiring actress-models were a side business for Joe. And he had connections. If these pictures came out well, he’d show them to the producer of Skinny Dipping, or, even better, to casting directors.

  Mandy admitted, “I could do reality TV, you know, like as a stepping-stone to a career in movies.”

  Picturing herself as the next Bachelorette, maybe America’s Next Top Model, both of which she totally qualified for, Mandy only half heard Joe respond, “Reality TV? I dunno. Videos, that I can promise.”

  The studio was sparse, very little in the way of props or furniture. A raggedy plaid couch was set against an exposed-brick wall, and an aged cracked-leather beanbag chair sat under the one window. Joe decided to pose her in various positions on and around the chair, which Skeever moved to the center of the room. After half an hour of this, Mandy was growing bored, and colder. “Any chance we can raise the thermostat here?”

  Joe shook his head and kept on shooting. “We need to keep the studio chilly.”

  Skever put in, “Might ruin the picture if you warm up too much, y’know?”

  Mandy shivered. Asshole.

  World Photos was located several streets off the main drag in Hyannis and, to Mandy’s chagrin, up three flights of stairs. She’d had to lug all her own changes of clothes, makeup, and hair stuff since Tim had freakin’ bailed on her at the last minute, citing a just-scheduled night shoot that apparently had required the services of the best boy.

  She’d whined, begged, cajoled, even offered a special “reward” if he came with her, but Tim insisted she’d be better off, less introverted without him there. Which made no sense. Wasn’t she more apt to really shine with a supportive boyfriend around?

  “Look, angel. I introduced you to Joe—just like you asked me to. When the pitchers are done …” Mandy winced. Tim had many fine qualities. Pronunciation was not one of them.

  “Joe’s gonna show them around to the right people in the biz. This is gonna get you started, just like we said.” He learned over and gave her a kiss, and cupped her breast. “Knock ’em dead, babe. You got what it takes.”

  Mandy was ready to change into another outfit, even though the photographer seemed perfectly content with the lime green ensemble. Citing the need for a bathroom break, she grabbed her tote, along with a few of the clothes she’d brought, and headed to the ladies’. As she slipped out of the dress and reapplied her makeup, her cell phone went off. Had to be Tim, saying he was on his way back after all. With her free hand, she fished it out of her purse.

  “Sarah?”

  “Doesn’t live here anymore.” Mandy didn’t hide her disappointment or annoyance.

  Beverly Considine laughed. “I’m sorry. Mandy. How are you?”

  “Kinda busy, Bev. Can I call you back later?”

  “You can, but you know as well as I do that you won’t. Look, Sar … Mandy, this is important. It’s about Mitch.”

  Sighing, Mandy tucked the phone under her chin, freeing her hands to twirl her hair into an updo. From outside the bathroom door, she heard Joe call, “Tick tock, c’mon Mandy, we’re waiting.”

  “I’m in the middle of a photo shoot, Bev. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  “I haven’t been able to reach Mitch, and I’m really worried that something’s up with him.”

  “Is that what your Spidey sense tells you?” Mandy cracked.

  “Don’t be cruel,” Bev reprimanded her. “It’s what my twin sister sense tells me.”

  “Sorry,” Mandy apologized. She doubted if Mitch had shared the disastrous details of the robbery with his sister.

  “Call Mitch,” Beverly urged. “You have his cell phone, right? Just call him and tell him to call me. Tell him I’m really worried about him.”

  “Got the number programmed in,” Mandy assured her. “I’ll call as soon as I’m done here.”

  Joe summoned her again. Mandy checked her look in the mirror, and satisfied, flounced out. Skeever leaned against the wall nearest the exit, Joe paced the room. Neither seemed thrilled by her new ensemble.

  She, however, wanted a totally different look, one that said “casual hip,” in case she was being considered for the part of a teenager in a TV show. So she’d chosen low riders, accessorized with a chain belt, and a sparkly cami beneath a sequined shrug. “What do you think?”

  Not much, by their dour expressions. Finally Joe said, “Ditch the half-sweater, lower the pants, and let your hair down. We’ll try it.”

  Mandy frowned. If there’d been an actual stylist here at her session, she was sure her look would prevail. She hesitated, but Joe tapped impatiently on his wristwatch. “Time’s a-wastin’. We got a lot of shots to get in.”

  Mandy took a deep breath and forced herself to think rationally. Who was she to act like she really knew from professional photo sessions, anyway? Wasn’t like she’d ever done one before. Maybe this was exactly what they’re like, not the slick, doctored-up behind-the-scenes photos in her glossy magazines. Besides, she scolded herself, eyes on the prize. She was here, tonight, for a reason. And it had nothing to do with how low her jeans were, or letch-a-lump over by the door.

  “Okay, hint of a smile, now, just a tease,” Joe cajoled, keeping an eye trained on the lens.

  Teasing, she could do. Mandy pivoted and lavished her most excellent come-hither pose on Joe’s camera. The one that whispered, “Hey, hottie. Yeah, you, with the paunch and the pencil holder. Hella yeah, I think you’re sexy. Come closer and I’ll prove it, baby.”

  It was a total act—well rehearsed, too.

  Joe was spectacularly unimpressed. “No, honey, I didn’t say turn your body.”

  “But you said a teasing smile,” Mandy noted.

  Exasperated, he sighed. “If you turn away from the camera, you miss the whole point.”

  “Yeah, and them points are some-a your best assets,” Skeever added.

  Mandy glared at him. But he only laughed.

  After several rolls of film in her now dangerously low jeans, Mandy suggested another change of clothes. “For a more sophisticated look.”

  Joe put the camera down and feigned wiping his brow. “More outfits?”

  There was the chill again, creeping up her spine. She played it cool. “I brought, like, a dozen.”

  Joe scratched his chin. “Didn’t Tim explain what to wear?”

  Her stomach began to churn, but she swallowed her mounting doubts. Smiling brightly, she said, “I know how this works. The pictures have to display different looks, so casting agents can visualize you in a whole variety of roles. You know, like, sultry, cute, romantic, serious, comedic, tragic.”

  A stony silence filled the room.

  Then, a sickening smirk spread across Skeever’s face. “We only want one look. And you got that down pat.”

  Infuriated, Mandy had to hold her tongue, lest she gave this subhuman a verbal whiplash he would not forget.

  Joe clarified, “You won’t be needing any of the clothes you brought.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’re ready to get serious now. And
you’ll find all the … costumes … you’ll need in the closet.” He nodded toward a door she hadn’t noticed before.

  Warily, Mandy strode over to it, trying to think positive. Maybe there really were class outfits inside. But knowing, in the way you sometimes just do, that that wasn’t true. A peek inside was enough to know what they had in mind.

  Hands on her hips, she swiveled to face Joe. “Uh-uh. No way. I’m a real actress. All I need is a chance to prove myself. And your pictures are the first step. I thought you were professional.”

  “Oh, that I am, darlin’, that I am,” Joe agreed, cocking his head.

  Mandy’s heart thudded so loudly, she could barely hear herself. “Then what’s with the slut-lingerie in there?” she challenged. “What’s that gonna do for my career?”

  It wasn’t the sneer Joe gave her as much as the nauseating guffaw that belched from Skeever’s fleshy throat. “Oh, ain’t that a juicy one,” he finally managed after he finished laughing. “‘What’s it gonna do for my career?’” he mimicked cruelly.

  Joe was suddenly all business. “Enough. Let’s not play coy here. As you said, I am a professional photographer. And the photos we take today will most certainly advance your career. But how do you expect to get hired if you don’t show us your real talent?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Mandy lied, praying he didn’t see her shaking, and already formulating an exit strategy.

  Joe came up to her, took her hand, and led her toward the couch. Stiffly, she acquiesced.

  “There’s a lot of money to be made in … uh … acting,” he explained gently. “Especially for someone with your looks. And if you let us do our job, we can help you get started.” He reached out, ran his fingers through her hair. “Natural redhead, huh?”

  Mandy flinched and leaped off the couch as if she’d been launched. She growled, “No way. This is so not what we agreed to. I’m outta here.”

  Skeever moved swiftly for someone of his girth. Suddenly behind her, in one swift motion, he pulled her camisole top down, exposing her strapless bra. Mandy kicked him—hard, and right in the crotch.