Max Nolan was on top of the world.

Okay, so technically he was on top of his bed. Not the whole world. But since his bed was in his new apartment, and his new apartment was in the most luxurious loft complex in downtown Phoenix, he figured that was close enough.

Sprawled in the sheets, bare-ass naked and awake with the sunrise, he rolled over. A groan of pleasure escaped him.

Life was good. Sunshine washed over him, as golden and potent as the desert outside. A faint breeze cooled his skin, courtesy of the turbo-powered A/C he’d cranked up exactly the way he liked it—almost arctic enough to frost the windows overlooking his coveted view of Camelback Mountain.

From the nightstand beside him, the tang of gin reached him, along with the waxy sweetness of a half-dozen burned-out candles. Both were remnants from last night. So were the clothes he’d discarded someplace nearby, his aforementioned nakedness, and the martini-fueled aftertaste on his tongue.

Given the crucial importance of his business meeting this morning, downing so many cocktails probably hadn’t been his smartest move. But he’d had cause to celebrate. A new town to conquer, a new venture to launch...a new beginning, period.

Today was the day that would change everything.

Powered by the thought, Max opened his eyes. His bedroom snapped into focus, designer decorated in minimalist shades of tan, white, and black. The sunshine sliced his plush carpet into rectangles that unwittingly showcased last night’s intended debauchery. An empty bottle of Tanqueray. Crushed rose petals. A woman’s single black stocking.

A pair of plane tickets. Torn in half.

Oh yeah. Certain things hadn’t gone as planned. That was a new experience for him—one he hadn’t exactly savored.

Not that it mattered. He didn’t intend to be caught by surprise again. Last night was a fluke. Even if it wasn’t, he knew he could turn things around today; he always did. He was lucky that way—lucky and persistent.

To some people, those two things—luck and persistence—were equal. Max didn’t agree. He took luck seriously, with the same gravity he reserved for financing terms, deal making, and NBA play-offs. Luck was real. As real as the good-morning kiss, cuddle, and argument-ending make up session he planned to savor approximately ten seconds from now.

Those ripped-up plane tickets meant he had some heavy-duty compensating to do. Only an idiot—or someone utterly unfamiliar with women—would have failed to realize that. Cheerfully pondering the situation, he considered talking it over. Having a long heart-to-heart, trying to explain and apologize. But the way Max saw it, talking was overrated. Especially when it came to making amends. With apologies—as with life—what really mattered was what a guy did.

Particularly if he could be creative about it.

And Max considered himself to be very creative.

Squinting at the bedside clock, he gauged how long it would take him to shower, shave, and make it to the site of his business meeting. If he got started right now—and skipped breakfast in favor of chugging his usual Ethiopian Yergacheffe on the drive—he could make up for last night’s plane-ticket-ripping, tantrum-throwing debacle with time to spare.

With an anticipatory grin, he swept his arm along the sheets in search of Ms. Tantrum herself—his girlfriend of six months, Sarabeth. He’d wake her up, roll her over, and...find her gone?

Puzzled, Max took a closer look. Yep. Nothing but acres of rumpled sheets, an abandoned pillow, and a missed opportunity to set things right. Hmmm. That was weird. This definitely didn’t fit the master-of-the-universe vibe he had going this morning.

She couldn’t have gone far. Sarabeth never went anyplace without a wardrobe change, a manicure, or both. Throwing off the sheets and comforter, he padded naked across the bedroom. He cocked his head, listening for sounds of water running in the shower or dishes clanging in the apartment’s sleek galley kitchen.

Nada. Confused, he wondered if he’d somehow miscalculated the situation. Was she pissed enough to walk out on him?

That wasn’t like her, though. Sarabeth never did anything halfway. There’d be a scene. A dramatic announcement. Something. Besides, she had slept with him last night, even if all they’d done was...sleep. Much to his disappointment, after the weeks he’d spent out of town—monastically, even celibately—putting the finishing touches on his most recent entrepreneurial venture.

It was true his relationship with Sarabeth wasn’t serious. It was fun and frivolous, based on good times and lots of traveling to exotic spots. But Max was a one-woman-at-a-time kind of guy. He’d remained faithful to her anyway. It was just his way.

“Sarabeth?” he called.

The tap of her high heels was his answer. She breezed into the bedroom from behind him, where his customized walk-in closet was. He hadn’t heard her rummaging around, but apparently she’d been busy in there, because she strode purposefully past him now with an armload of gray flannel and black wool.

He blinked. “What are you doing with my suits?”

“You’ll see.”

Her singsong tone didn’t quite match her steely expression. It looked a lot like the one she used whenever a boutique salesperson kept her waiting too long. Warning bells clanged in his head. This couldn’t be good.

She didn’t so much as glance his way as she passed. She merely scooped up a few dropped neckties and then kept going. Miffed, Max put his hands on his hips. Come on. When a guy was standing there naked, a woman was obligated to offer a morning once-over. A perfunctory ogle. Something. It was just common courtesy.

“I’m making some changes around here,” she informed him, still not ogling. “These are first up.”

He frowned at his suits. Making some changes. Even said with her trademark honeyed Georgia drawl, those words left him feeling chilled. The same way “meatless hamburgers” did, and movies with wisecracking computer-generated babies in them.

Holding her head high, Sarabeth headed for the living room, her sequined minidress glittering as she moved. In addition to last night’s outfit and high heels, she was also wearing last night’s moussed-up hairdo and a load of smeared eye makeup. Exactly how long had she been hatching this cockamamie plan? Whatever it was?

Before he could decide, his front door slammed.

What the...? Determinedly, Max followed. No woman absconded with all his suits, talked about mysterious “changes,” and failed to ogle him, all in the same morning. It was enough to hurt a guy’s feelings.

A weaker guy than him, sure. But still.

He whipped open the front door, intending to stop Sarabeth before she reached the elevator.

“Morning, Mr. Nolan.” The doorman, Hank—who usually did not perform double duty as elevator operator—doffed his cap.

Sarabeth, stopping in the midst of entering the elevator, finally dropped her non-ogling attitude—not that Max found much to shout about in the experience. Her gaze slipped down his bare torso toward parts south and then...she rolled her eyes.

Hell. Belatedly, he remembered he was still naked. Which explained Hank’s averted gaze and added insult to injury. His own girlfriend had just rolled her eyes at his nakedness! What was the world coming to?

He picked up the Arizona Daily from his doormat. Using the newspaper as a vertical shield to cover his bait and tackle, he ignored Hank’s nondoormanlike smirk.

“Sarabeth, wait. Whatever this is, we can talk about it.”

“Talk? You? Hah!” She tossed her hair, shaking out its expertly highlighted blond length. “You never talk, Max. Not lately. Lately all you do is work. Work, work, work. I’ve had it!”

She turned to the doorman. “Let’s go, Hank. I’ve got a drop-off to make.”

With a subdued thunk, the elevator doors slid shut.

Max stared. Drop-off? What kind of drop-off involved his suits? Sarabeth’s laundry service picked up and delivered. She wasn’t exactly the domestic type. It was unlikely she intended to visit the Wash ’N’ Spin herself.

What the hell was going on here?

He wasn’t waiting around to find out. In hot pursuit, Max jabbed the elevator button. Five seconds later, it lit up.

Staring at that feeble red glow, he remembered that while the building’s elevator system might be state of the art and the car itself opulently decorated in marble and gilt, it was still notoriously slow. Which probably explained why Sarabeth had apparently asked Hank to hold it for her.

Aggravated, Max ducked inside his apartment, grabbed a pair of boxer briefs—the first thing that came to hand from his still-unpacked luggage—and yanked them on. Half-hopping, half-walking as he wriggled into his tighty-whities, he headed outside to the terrace to scope out the situation.

Downstairs on the sidewalk, Sarabeth popped into view from beneath the awning. She tip-tapped purposefully to a gaudily painted metal container—it looked like a renovated mailbox gone horribly wrong—and dropped everything in her arms on the sidewalk beside it.

She opened the box’s gaping maw, which allowed Max to see it wasn’t empty. A few familiar items poked haphazardly from within. Items like his favorite black nightclubbing shirt. His Oxford wing tips. Several of his leather belts. Three button-down shirts. A brown dress sock.

This wasn’t the first trip she’d made, he realized. He must have slept through a few of them.

With glee, Sarabeth stuffed one of his suit jackets inside. Then, holding the box open, she paused. He’d swear she tossed a triumphant look straight up to his terrace. Then she busily resumed stuffing.

With a sense of surreality, Max realized the truth.

She was throwing away all his suits. All his shirts, all his ties, all his shoes and socks and...everything.

Shit. Flooded with confusion and disbelief, he heard a ping and ran for the elevator. The doors were closing as he reached it, but he muscled his way inside and rode it, clenching his fists, down to the building’s lobby.

By the time he hit the sidewalk, Sarabeth was giddily accepting a broomstick from Hank. With gusto, she jabbed it in the metal box, using it as a ramrod to pack in the suits and shirts and shoes. That accomplished, she snatched the final item she’d brought and prepared to slam-dunk it.

His best suit. His favorite suit. The suit he’d planned to wear to his all-important business meeting this morning.

“Not my lucky suit!” Max shouted.

She hesitated a nanosecond. Then, with evident delight, she crammed his suit inside the box. Two surprisingly powerful broomstick whacks later, it sank from view.

No. This couldn’t be happening. Gaping in disbelief, he watched as Sarabeth dusted off her hands. Wearing a bizarre grin, she returned Hank’s broomstick. She thanked the doorman politely. She sent him on his way.

Max felt dizzy. His lucky suit! His lucky suit...gone.

On the day that was supposed to change everything.

“There.” Sarabeth linked arms with him, derailing his horror-stricken train of thought. “Now you can’t work all the time, because you’ll have nothing to wear to the office. You’ll have to take me to Aruba like you promised.”

“What?” She was crazy. Wrenching free, he jammed his arm in the box. It wasn’t designed for retrieval—he could barely brush his fingertips across the compacted clothes inside. “I told you last night, we can’t go to Aruba. I have to launch my new venture with Oliver. My plans changed.”

“Change them back.”

Her childlike tone demanded he comply. Max knew he couldn’t. It was impossible. He’d thought she understood that.

“I have to work.” Grunting, he fished for his stuff. No dice. He couldn’t salvage so much as a necktie. That didn’t mean he was going to quit trying, though. “Work is what I do.”

“It’s all you do! What happened to the fun Max? The Max who took me to Miami, to New York, to Paris?” Her drawl beseeched him, sounding—for the first time—spoiled and petulant. “I want my Max back. Not the workaholic who showed up an hour late for dinner last night.”

Not this again. “I told you. My meeting ran overtime.”

“Right. So you said. But according to my therapist—”

Sarabeth kept talking, launching into a play-by-play of her latest therapy session. Max frowned. He tried to follow the mishmash of psychobabble that came next, the same way he always did. But this time, a rumbling down the street diverted him.

Thank God.

An ancient truck jerked into view, its cargo area painted in the same vivid pinks and blues as the metal box currently holding his lucky suit hostage. He squinted. That retro, flower-power color scheme couldn’t be a coincidence.

He reared back to read the painted words on the box’s side: Successfully Dressed Donations. Oh Christ.

“You’re donating all my stuff!”

“Of course.” Sarabeth blinked, an unfamiliar high-handed impatience in her expression. “This is your wake-up call, Max. My therapist suggested it. It’s me or your...work thing. You choose.”

“My ‘work thing’? Are you seriously telling me you don’t even know what I do for a living?”

She sighed. “So long as it gets me to Aruba, who cares? I don’t see what you’re getting so worked up about.”

He couldn’t possibly have heard her correctly. Did Sarabeth really see him as nothing but a walking, talking, martini-swilling plane ticket to Partyville? Was that all she cared about?

Numbly, Max watched as the Successfully Dressed truck squealed to a stop in front of the neighborhood eyesore—a dilapidated natural foods store. There was another donation box in front of the place, probably packed with tie-dyed T-shirts.

It looked as if he had a few more minutes. Enough time to give Sarabeth the benefit of the doubt.

“If I don’t work,” he told her with labored patience, “I won’t be able to afford Aruba. I won’t be able to afford a trip to the cheap seats at a Diamondbacks game.”

She scoffed. “I don’t even like baseball. Problem solved!”

This was hopeless. “Sarabeth, I need my clothes. I need my lucky suit. Today. My meeting is—”

“Meeting, schmeeting.” Brightly, she smiled at him. “Do you think the airline will take Scotch-taped tickets? Or should I send Hank out for some superglue?”

Max searched her expectant face, at a loss as to how to respond. He wondered how he’d gotten to this point. Usually he was good at things. Really good. Freakishly good. That skill was the cornerstone of his business dealings. That—and luck.

“Well, sugar pie? We’d better get going, hadn’t we?” Sarabeth, back to her ostensibly sweet self, jerked him out of his reverie. She gestured toward the apartment building.

Max shook his head.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not even dressed! You can’t stay out here in your underwear.”

Max didn’t care. Mulishly, he crossed his arms over his chest. Sarabeth had backed him into a corner, and it wasn’t a comfortable fit. Without his lucky suit, he might as well be nude anyway.

“People will talk!” she protested.

“People with clothes?” He eyeballed the donation box. It didn’t look all that sturdy. He figured he could crack it. “Lucky them.”

She shot him an exasperated look. “Don’t be difficult. Tell you what—let’s go upstairs. I’ll order some breakfast, and you can hop in the shower. Maybe I’ll even join you.” She offered a lascivious wink. “We’ve got lots of time until we have to get to the airport.”

“I’m not going to the airport. I’m staying here,” Max announced. “I’m getting my stuff back before that charity truck comes this way.”

Avoiding the sidewalk cracks in his path—he’d risked enough bad luck today—he strode to Hank’s desk. Ignoring the doorman’s protests, he grabbed the broomstick. Max was getting his lucky suit back, and nobody was going to stop him.

~ ~ ~

From the driver’s seat of her truck, Lucy Logan took a fortifying swig of her lemongrass chai infusion. Ahhh. There was nothing like a visit to Jade’s health food store to start her morning off on the right foot. Just holding the warm cup and inhaling the spicy aroma made her feel contented.

She’d have been happy to linger at the store’s cozy café all day, talking and laughing, if not for the need to get on with her donation pickup route. As it was, she’d already made herself late by stopping to admire her friend Victor’s new henna mehndi body art. In general, Lucy tried to take life as it came, but sometimes a person had to get a move on.

Unfortunately, today was one of those days.

She propped her drink in the plastic cup holder attached to the door and started the truck. Its engine roared to life, making the duct-taped vinyl seat vibrate beneath her. The radio crackled. She kept it tuned to her favorite alternative music station, ensuring a kick-ass mood while she made her rounds.

Okay. Determinedly, Lucy gripped the steering wheel. She took a deep breath. The whole rig was a lot to handle. Driving it still made her nervous. But she needed to learn how to do everything if Successfully Dressed was going to survive.

Of course, if good intentions counted for anything, the shop definitely would survive. Thrive, even. She was sure of that much. So...no worries. If there was one thing Lucy had nailed, it was good intentions. Also, belly dancing. And skateboarding. And—to be honest—making a truly wicked mai tai.

Hey, a girl had to have her talents.

The big shots at the next stop, a super-ritzy apartment building, rarely donated anything to their pickup site’s box, despite the obvious appeal of its eye-catching paint job. But Lucy parked the truck anyway. She figured, optimistically, that it was important to keep her hopes up.

She also figured, realistically, that it was smart to keep the engine running.

She clambered out of the truck and released its rear catch. The cargo bay door slid upward on its track, liberating the familiar scents of musty cotton, damp cardboard, and mothballs. Wrinkling her nose, she peered into the dim interior. It looked pretty empty. She needed lots more pickups today.

With that thought in mind, she hotfooted it to the nearby donation box. She’d give this one a cursory check. Then she could move on to likelier prospects farther downtown. Jangling her keys, she unlocked the donation box’s rear hatch.

Avalanche! The door swung open, releasing a jack-in-the-box torrent of wool, cotton, and silk. Surprised, Lucy stuffed the overflow back in, then held it in place with her shoulder while she pried out the removable bin.

Wow. This was a real jackpot. Pants without holes, shirts without stains, even a few warm wool jackets. These things would be perfect for the men’s division of Successfully Dressed. Apparently, someone inside Big Shot Central had developed a social conscience.

Happily, she dropped the bin on the sidewalk. Plastic scraped against gritty concrete as she hauled the bin into position and mounded all the clothes inside. Everyone at Successfully Dressed would be thrilled to see this haul. It exceeded their collection goals for the whole week.

Just as she added the last stray necktie to the pile, footsteps sounded. Then a shrill, “If you go after those clothes, Max Nolan, we’re through!”

It sounded like a lunatic southern belle. Or a deranged Miss Georgia contestant in the throes of the swimsuit competition. Curious, Lucy straightened. On the other side of the collection box, a statuesque blonde in four-inch heels and a fancy dress stood beside a man in his underwear. Neither had noticed her.

Frankly, though, the underwear guy was hard to miss.

He said something Lucy couldn’t hear clearly. Whatever it was, the blonde didn’t like it. She reared back, gave a major-league-worthy windup, and then...slap!

Lucy gasped. The guy clapped his hand to his cheek, just like in the movies. He looked stunned.

“Fine! We’re finished!” the woman yelled.

She tossed her hair—with frankly unnecessary theatricality, in Lucy’s practical opinion. She gave a “hmmph.” Then she clip-clopped away at double speed without looking back.

That was harsh. Especially the not-looking-back part.

“Ouch,” Lucy whispered, hugging her donation bin.

The man glanced her way. Caught eavesdropping, Lucy felt embarrassed enough to do what she always did in uncomfortable situations. She cracked a joke.

“Let me guess.” Balancing the bin on her hip, she hooked her thumb toward the departing belle. “You’re a briefs man, but she prefers boxers?”

For the first time, he grinned. “Something like that. Just call me a traditionalist.”

“Tough luck, traditionalist.”

He gave a murmur of assent, his whole demeanor suggesting it was perfectly natural to discuss the issue. On the sidewalk. In the sunshine. With him all muscle-bound and gorgeously tanned, dressed in nothing but a pair of tighty-whities.

With a shrug, Lucy decided to take her cue from him. Live and let live, and all that. In her artsy, freewheeling neighborhood—in her whole life, in fact—that was the only attitude to follow.

Besides, the guy wasn’t exactly hard on the eyeballs. He—Max Nolan, she remembered overhearing—was like a men’s underwear billboard come to life. Only brainier looking and slightly more talkative. Besides, his boxer briefs weren’t that revealing. She’d seen more displayed, to less advantage, at her friend Callia’s swimming pool in Tucson.

The whine of an engine overrode the rumble of her truck and sidetracked her thoughts, just for an instant. Caught by it, Lucy stared down the palm tree-lined street. She and the man both watched Miss Georgia zoom away in a showy sports car.

He released a gusty sigh. Absently, he raked his hand through his dark hair, tousling it further. He turned to Lucy.

He shrugged. “Well, that’s that.”

He didn’t sound too broken up over it. Lucy guessed he and the Amazonian blonde hadn’t been that close. Or maybe it was just that men moved on quickly. He was probably combing his mental black book for a rebound date right now.

Not that it mattered to her. She pretty much took things easy. Hefting her bin, she prepared to leave. The radio in her truck blared one of her favorite punk songs, and the windfall in her arms promised good karma for the rest of the day. There was nothing to stick around here for.

That’s that, she echoed to herself.

Overall, this had been a pretty good Tuesday morning, though. She couldn’t deny that. One yummy lemongrass chai infusion? Check. One donation windfall? Check. One buffed-up hunk with dark eyes and a delicious grin? Double check.

But she had to be on her way. Waggling her eyebrows, Lucy gave Max Nolan one last appreciative ogle. Given the hard time he’d just endured, she figured the gesture might cheer him up.

It did. His lips curved in a surprised smile.

“You know,” he said, “you have a really kind face.”

He sounded bemused by that observation...almost fascinated. A person would think kindness was rare or something.

“Did anybody ever tell you that?”

“All the time,” Lucy said. “Whenever somebody tries to sign me up for cell phone service. Or a credit card.”

He eyed her sardonic grin. His shoulders relaxed. She thought he might offer a snappy comeback, since—for some reason—he struck her as the guiltlessly glib type. But he didn’t say anything else. In fact, he looked sort of gob smacked. Given the recent turn of events, she didn’t blame him.

“Well, back to work.” Lucy nodded at her bin, then tilted her head toward her idling truck. “These donations won’t pick themselves up. But hey, better luck next time. Don’t take any wooden nickels. Or pick up any bottle blondes.”

Still wearing that odd expression, he lifted his hand in a silent good-bye. Oh well. All her jokes couldn’t be knee-slappers, could they?

Three minutes later, she’d stowed all the donations securely in the truck’s cargo bay. After a restorative chug of lemongrass chai infusion, she put the truck in gear. Bobbing her head to the radio’s music, she headed out.

A block later, a flash of white in the truck’s massive side safety mirror caught her eye. Mr. Tighty-Whities. He ran in her wake, yelling something. That was weird. In the spirit of open-mindedness—and of appreciating buff biceps—she decided to pull over.

She leaned out the window. Yep. Maybe Max Nolan was crazy; she didn’t know for sure. But his entire body—and she could see most of it at the moment—was insanely fine.

“What’s up?” she asked. “Dying for my phone number? You’re going to be bummed, because I don’t have a phone.”

He looked momentarily flummoxed. No phone? his expression said. No way! But he regrouped quickly.

“I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

He wasn’t even winded, she noticed. Even after running all this way. And his pursuit of her—so madcap and uninhibited—was the most thrilling thing to happen to her in days.

Obligingly, Lucy cut the engine. She had nothing to lose by finding out what he wanted. And possibly everything to gain. She believed in experiencing life to its fullest.

She jumped to the curb. The early-morning June sunlight forced her to squint to see his face. Max had a dimple near his stubbly right cheek, she noticed. It upgraded his look from tough guy to potentially mischievous tough guy. Very cute.

“I got a little...distracted back there.” He gestured to the corner where they’d met. “Which is completely unlike me, by the way, because I’m usually very focused. I usually get things done.”

She nodded. “Mmm-hmm.”

“I don’t know what happened, actually. One minute we were talking, and the next...” He broke off. A goofy grin lit his expression as he gazed into her face. “The next you were driving away.”

Awww. He was a romantic, Lucy realized. A freshly dumped, apparently openhearted, chockablock-with-charisma romantic. He must have been so entranced by meeting her that he’d lost track of everything else. She couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. It was like something out of a movie.

Still, it was better to play it cool.

“Right. Of course. So...you wanted to ask me something?”

He nodded. She held her breath, waiting. Deep inside, the secret, sappy part of her raised itself on tiptoes. Any moment now, he’d say something wonderful.

(end of excerpt)