Copyright 2012 by Isabel Morin
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
At some point during her going away party, people Nina had never met began arriving. Which was fine, since she hadn’t been in New York long enough to acquire a roomful of friends. Even the people she did know were more Stacy’s friends than hers. But it was sweet of Stacy to throw the party just the same.
Nina was standing by the iPod dock in the corner, fooling around with the music, when Stacy walked over, a wicked grin on her face.
“Nina, I have someone I’d like you to meet,” she said, turning halfway around to smile at a man who’d followed her across the room. “Ian Sinclair, meet the woman of honor, Nina Valentine.”
Stacy winked at Nina and disappeared back into the group of people standing around the drinks table.
Six foot something of gorgeous manliness stood before her in perfectly tailored suit pants, crisp white shirt rolled up to his elbows and unbuttoned at the throat, and a loosened lavender tie at his neck. Early-thirties, dark wavy hair and Paul Newman eyes, not to mention the lean body of an athlete.