She hadn’t known how much had been bottled up inside her. Or just how much she’d needed to feel like a woman again. But then, she hadn’t known she could love again.

She shifted, slipping under the tangled sheets, automatically lifting them to her breasts when Coop came back with the wine and glasses.

The sight of her in his bed shot to his loins, with a quick detour through the heart. He said nothing, pouring wine, offering her a fresh glass and settling beside her.

“Why haven’t you been with anyone?” The moment the question was out, he wished for a rusty knife to hack off his tongue. “Sorry, none of my business.”

“It’s all right.” Because I haven’t fallen in love with anyone before you, she thought. But that wasn’t what he wanted to hear, she knew. Nor was it really what he’d asked.

“You want to know about Keenan’s father.”

“None of my business,” he repeated. “Sorry, it’s the reporter in me.”

“It was a long time ago—a lifetime ago. I don’t mind telling you. I grew up in New York. I think I mentioned that my mother’s an actress. I was the result of a second marriage. She’s had five. So far.”

“Five?”

Zoe chuckled into her wine, sipped. “Clarice falls in love and changes husbands the way some women change hairstyles. My father lasted about four years before they parted amicably. Clarice always has friendly divorces. I didn’t see much of him, because he moved to Hollywood. He does commercials and voice-overs mostly. Anyway, I think she was on husband number four when I was in high school. He had some pull with the Towers Modeling Agency. They’re pretty big.”

“I’ve heard of them.”

“Well, he got me in. I started doing some shoots. And I caught on.”

“That’s it,” Coop said, interrupting her. “I knew I’d seen your face before.”

She moved her shoulders. “Five, six years ago, it was hard to avoid it. I did twenty covers in one month, the year after I graduated school.”

“Cover of In Sports, swimsuit edition.”

She smiled. “You’ve got a good memory. That was six years ago.”

He remembered the long, sand-dusted legs, the lush wet red excuse for a bathing suit, the laughing, seductive face. He gulped down wine. “It was a hell of a shot.”

“And a long, grueling shoot. Anyway, I was making a lot of money, getting a lot of press, going to lots of parties. I met Roberto at one of them.”

“Roberto.” Coop grimaced at the sound of the name.

“Lorenzi. Tennis player. You might have heard of him.”

“Lorenzi? Sure—took the French Open three years ago in straight sets, then blew Wimbledon in the semis. He’s got a bad attitude and likes to race cars and chase women on the side. Hasn’t been seeded above twenty-fifth in the last two years. Got some bad press this spring when he tipped back too many vinos and punched out a photographer.” Coop started to drink, stopped. “Lorenzi? He’s Keenan’s father? But he’s—”