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MrsRobinson: And do you really think you could feel any worse?
True enough. She was already miserable. The worst thing that could happen was that she’d still be miserable.
StacyStarr: Thank you. To both of you. Maybe I’ll try to contact him. I can promise I’ll think about it.
MrsRobinson: Good for you!
StacyStarr: I need to get going. But I really do want to do some research on cougar/cub relationships too. Do you mind if I come back sometime?
Hollygolightly: Of course not! Everyone is welcome here.
StacyStarr: Thanks! I’m really glad I found you guys. Talk to you soon!
Stacy logged out of the chatroom and pulled up Michael’s website. No doubt about it, the man was a god. Head shots, body shots, shots with gorgeous female models, book covers—everything on the site made her drool. Had always made her drool. She tensed when she got to the black-and-white shower shot she adored—the shot from the calendar that she’d been ogling when she first met Michael.
Seeing Michael dripping with water brought back pleasant memories that stung her heart. The pleasure of their wet and soapy bodies sliding together, his strong fingers shampooing her hair, his hard cock sliding in and out of her slick heat while droplets of water pelted her face and shoulders…
No.
She jolted back to reality. Her mouse hovered above the “Contact Michael” link.
She shook her head. She couldn’t do it. Megan and Holly were no doubt right—she should find out once and for all where Michael stood. But her fear slithered up her spine, threatening to choke her.
She’d been rejected once before. She wasn’t sure she could take it again. So much for only being as miserable as she was now.
Instead of contacting Michael, she typed his name into the search engine. Why not make herself more miserable by surfing the web and fnding out everything possible about the man she loved?
For she did love him. Admitting it produced a strange mixture of elation and sorrow in her heart. A connection to Michael pierced her soul with a fierce need and desire that she’d never felt for David or any other man.
True love.
She’d finally found it, finally felt it.
Too bad it would never be returned.
She surfed through web page after web page honoring the work and image of Michael Moretti. The Chicago Playboys site boasted what seemed like hundreds of photos of Michael holding adoring females on his lap, sometimes two and three at a time, of Michael kissing said adoring females, of said adoring females touching Michael’s sculpted torso or the bulge beneath his tight black pants.
Sadness surged through Stacy. Michael was no doubt back on the road now, performing for these salivating females. He could sleep with any one of them. Hell, he probably was sleeping with them. How many women had he been with since her?
A shallow breath left her body. Pinpricks skittered over her flesh. Damn him! Damn Michael Moretti for making her feel so alive! And then taking it away…
Still, she continued the self-flagellation of surfing through each web page associated with Michael Moretti. Like the hundreds of people in cars on the highway who can’t help gawking at an accident on the side of the road, she couldn’t help looking at page after page of Michael.
Michael doing a cover shoot, Michael being interviewed on a romance author’s blog, Michael participating in a charity bachelor auction, Michael mourning the death of his fiancée…
What?
Stacy widened her eyes. On her computer screen was a grainy black-and-white photo of a much younger Michael Moretti, nine years younger to be exact. He had just started shooting covers, had just started making a name for himself in the business. The article was from a local newspaper and had obviously been scanned onto the computer by the owner of this particular fan page. Stacy squinted to read the small blurry print.
Chapter Ten
“You not eating enough.” Michael’s mother heaped spaghetti and meatballs onto his plate. “You going to waste away, Michele.”
Michele. Mee-kay-lay. Only his mother used his given Italian first name. He’d changed it in elementary school when the boys had realized it spelled a girl’s name in English. After a bloodied nose and black eye, he’d had enough.
Francesca Moretti prepared the best spaghetti and meatballs in all of Chicago, in all the world, probably, but today, they tasted like sawdust to Michael.
“I’ve only lost a few pounds, Ma.”
