LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter 1

      One Year Later…

      Summer came early to New York. Memorial Day was three weeks away and the temperature was already in the low eighties. If this was any indication of what the next three months would bring it was going to be a long, hot summer in the city.

      Layla Brooks sat on the sill of her third floor walk-up apartment of the prewar building that faced Washington Square Park. She peered out of the smudged window at the entanglement of humanity on the streets below. Absently she fanned herself with the stiff, white envelope that boasted a Sag Harbor address—a world away from where she lived in the West Village.

      The West Village was known for its eclectic blend of people, styles, food, excitement and entertainment. Those were the things that drew her to this slice of New York City life, that and her cushy job as a journalist for The View. Her beat was New York lifestyles and in search of the next salacious story she haunted some of the best and the worst locales in the city.

      It was simply ironic how things got twisted all around and she became her own headline: laid off, unemployment running out, and working two nights a week as a hostess at Jake and Jill’s one of the local blues lounges. All things considered, she was better off than a lot of folks. She’d saved her money over the years and invested wisely, thanks to the wise counsel of her godmother Carolyn Harte. The paper had given her a decent severance and in the year that she’d been out of work, she’d finally finished up her classes in massage therapy. It had been an on-again, off-again process for nearly five years. Now she was fully certified in rehabilitation therapy, deep tissue massage and she had even taken a special course, two years earlier in tantric massage, which was how she’d met Brent Davis, her former fiancé.

      Brent was the manager of the tantric massage studio, tucked away in a three-story townhouse on the Lower East Side. He’d trained her—personally. There was no question that in the right hands the eroticism of the human touch is mind-blowing. Unfortunately, Brent felt the same way—about everyone. She’d been naïve and in love, engaged to be married to the man of her dreams and too blind to see that Brent didn’t only have “hands” for her. It took her a while to push that part of her life to the back of her head. But the hurt would rear its ugly head every now and again when she’d see couples hugged up together, whispering to each other and knowing that the evening would end with them in bed together—and she would roll around alone on empty sheets.

      The upside was that Brent was good at what he did and he’d taught her everything she needed to know to be just as good a masseuse as him, if not better. She had a few regular clients and the extra income was great. The idea of owning and running a studio became more intriguing day by day. But with the economy still on shaky ground she wasn’t quite ready to take the leap. At least not yet.

      She stopped fanning herself and flipped the envelope over. She ran her finger beneath the flap and tore it open. She pulled out the stiff, off-white postcard inside.

      It was the invitation she’d been expecting, embossed with the Platinum Society logo. It was the kickoff party of the season coupled with Desiree and Lincoln’s fifth wedding anniversary party, hosted by Layla’s god-sister, Melanie Harte. Although the festivities were more than a month away, Mel always planned way in advance.

      Desiree Armstrong was her soror and dear friend. They still laughed about all the fun they used to have as students living in the Big Apple. So when Desiree married Lincoln Davenport and moved out to Sag Harbor to open her art gallery and help out with his Bed & Breakfast establishment, The Port, Layla and Desiree didn’t see each other as often as they once did, but Layla could always find a reason to visit Sag Harbor.

      She’d spent most of her summers on the Harbor. Her godmother, Carolyn, the cofounder of the Platinum Society—a high class matchmaking service—made sure that she kept an eye on her precocious daughter Melanie, and Melanie didn’t go far without Layla. They’d grown up rubbing elbows with the people that the average person only saw on television and in the news. Melanie and Layla were trained in the areas of entertainment, money management, travel, fashion and knowing how to mix and mingle with anyone from the man on the street to the President of the United States. Like Melanie, Layla could speak three languages fluently and had traveled to Europe and Africa before she was eighteen. And if Layla had her way she would have married Melanie’s gorgeous brother Alan even though he always thought of her as the “cute kid,” and his little sister’s friend.

      She smiled as those good memories rushed to the surface before she hopped down from the sill, just as a truck backfired below and let off a plume of smoke into the muggy air.

      Yes, it would be great to get away. A change of scenery, hanging with her girls and enjoying a blow-out party was just what she needed.

      * * *

      “I think you should stay for the summer,” Desiree was saying while she held the cell phone between her jaw and shoulder and adjusted a painting on the wall.

      “Girl, the whole summer! You have got to be kidding. I have…stuff up here to take care of.”

      “Yeah,

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