Lynn woke in the center of her bed, in a hot, sweaty, heated tangle of sheets, her heart still racing and blood humming from the remnants of her dream.

A little unsteady, Lynn pushed back a mat of golden curls from her face.

She'd tumbled into bed last night—or early morning, depending on your point of view—with some pretty wicked thoughts about Hunter tormenting her into a deep, restless sleep where she'd imagined devious and wonderful things that now had her blushing at the very idea.

Rolling to her side, Lynn buried her face in her pillow and bit down on the urge to scream. This was supposed to have been under control. No longer an issue. How in the hell was she supposed to look at him after she'd spent a night fantasizing about the feel of his hands? The texture of his lips?

"God," Lynn muttered into foam and feathers. She was still painfully aroused and the throbbing ache between her legs was distracting. Your own damn fault, she argued with herself. Eleven damn months without sex was bound to make a woman a bit stir crazy. Toss in a few awkward interludes with Hunter—enticing as any forbidden fruit could be—and of course she was bound to have fits of insanity.

Flipping onto her back again, Lynn expelled a heavy breath, her eyes searching the ceiling as if the answer to all her woes would be written there for her to see, if she only looked hard enough.

Maybe she should go on a few dates. The last one was going on...what? Six months ago? Christ, how pathetic. A gerbil had more of an active social life than she did.

Ted. She thought, thinking back to that bar owner she'd met through Candice Ilkes—one of her clients, just a few weeks ago. He'd been nice. Not particularly the most attractive of men, but decent enough.

And funny. Funny was a plus.

Besides, she wasn't so vain or so highly opinionated of herself to only look to a man with broad shoulders, acres of muscle, tawny eyes—gold with flecks of green and a smile that melted the bones in her knees...

Why not ask Hunter out? That wicked, suggestive voice whispered longingly in the back of her mind, deep where she thought she'd buried it under lock and key. He's available...

He's off limits, the rational, practical side of her brain argued. End of discussion. Ripping aside the covers, Lynn leapt from bed, shoved her feet into slippers and burst from her room. She needed manual labour. Something tedious and consuming to keep her hands and mind busy so it wouldn't continue to roam and wander towards treacherous and unchartered territory.

Laundry, she thought with a gleam in her eye. There was a mountain of it stacked in the hallway hamper, so she hauled it into her arms and shuffled towards the elevator. Pulling back the grate, Lynn pushed the button for her basement level and road the way down in humming, grating silence.

Unfortunately, the ride down was slow and lingering enough for her mind to play through the events of last night, dwelling on the moments where she'd almost—almost—made a complete fool of herself.

She'd almost kissed him, for crying out loud. At the very least, she'd wanted to, and was sure that moment of want had been obvious enough for Hunter to have picked up on. What was going through his mind this morning, she wondered? Would he be lying in bed and shaking his head in confused disgust? Would he be laughing at foolish Lynn who'd gotten just a little too snookered on the wine?

She'd have to face him again at some point, but for now distance was best, she thought, happy when the elevator finally clunked to a stop at the bottom level. Thankfully, the next get together wasn't likely to happen for at least a month, so that would give her plenty of time to get all of her little blocks and barriers back in place.

In a month she could rebuild her walls and hide behind them convincingly enough so that no one need ever know that she was secretly attracted to Hunter, and had been for quite some time.

Unable, or unwilling—depending on your point of view, to face of all the chaotic emotions last night stirred up, humming through the next hour, Lynn sorted and tossed in three loads of colours. Filling her machines and listened to them whirl and spin and wash before heading back upstairs, keeping in mind that she would need to venture back down in about a half hour to swap over to the dryers.

She'd barely made it a foot off the elevator when she heard the chiming buzz of her front door.

Still too early for clients or staff, Lynn mused, noting the time was touching on seven. Reaching the door, she pressed the button on the intercom.

"Hello?"

"Delivery for Ms. Summers." A man replied through the static. Releasing the button, Lynn rolled her eyes as she yanked open the front door and marched down the steep, narrow steps, to the main entrance of her apartment. The courier stood huddled in the brick alcove of the doorway with a stack of rather large boxes just behind him. Battered and beaten cardboard wrapped in miles of wrinkled tape and scattered with labeled stickers that marked the packages Premium Rush and Fragile.

"You Joy Summers?" he asked, arms hugged to his chest and blue wool cap pulled low over his round, wind-blistered face, the black little device for signatures clutched in one gloved hand.

"That's my sister. She's upstairs, sleeping. I can sign for her." But he pulled back when she reached for the signature/scanner device.

"I'm sorry, miss, but I can only release this to Joy Summers, directly. Rules."

"I understand." Lynn braced against the burst of wind that funneled up the alley corridor and slapped them both. "If you wouldn't mind waiting, I'll get her to come collect the packages."

"They're heavy," the courier warned. "I could give her a hand up with it, if that's alright with you."

"Yes, thank you. I'll just be a sec."

Bolting back up the stairs, she closed the front door and hurried down to wake Her Royal Highness and found Joy sprawled on the bed, snoring into oblivion. Wadded up and rumpled pieces of clothing were scattered across the floor like landmines and booby traps so that Lynn had to navigate her way through the mess before reaching the bed. Giving her sister a firm nudge, she waited, then prodded again.

"Joy, you need to wake up. It's after ten."

"Go. Away."

"A package arrived for you, it's downstairs."

"So, go get it."

Stunned, Lynn jerked straight then narrowed challenging eyes.

With a single, vicious jerk, she yanked back the layers of duvet and sheets. Wearing nothing more than an oversized t-shirt she'd raided from Lynn's drawers, head under a pillow, Joy curled up like a shrimp on a hot skillet. With a fist twisted in the covers, Joy stubbornly held on and the muffled warning uttered from beneath the pillow promised vengeance of the worst kind.

Lynn held her ground, tugging and heaving until Joy's grasp on the blankets slackened, relinquishing their hold.

"The courier is freezing his ass off and waiting for you downstairs, go sign for your packages and ask him, kindly, to help you bring it up. Understood?"

Blowing her bangs out of her face, Joy glared through narrow slits that were once her large eyes. A vicious hang over pulsed and throbbed, thanks to the two college kids who'd loaded her up with shots of vodka at the club last night. One too many from the way her brain screamed against the glare of morning light, even if they had been much needed form of self-medication, or punishment.

"Fine," Joy grumbled, yanking on a pair of flannel pants—also raided from Lynn's drawers—a pair of boots and trudged out the room, down the hall and stomped out the door.

Dusting her hands, satisfied at a job well done, Lynn heaved the blankets back on to the bed—leaving them for Joy to untangle and remake when she was finished before venturing out into the kitchen in search of breakfast. Something hearty, she thought, but comforting, and her thoughts veered towards warm buttered toast, a couple of sunny side up eggs and a side of baked beans.

Singing softly as she dug through her cupboards for the beans, she popped bread in the toaster to brown and set a skillet on the stove. Finding the carton of eggs in the fridge, Lynn decided if she was going to go to the bother of cooking she might as well toss on a couple of extra for Joy.

Cracking one in each hand, she discarded the shells, cracked another set and then sprinkled a bit of salt and pepper over their tops as Joy huffed and puffed down the hall with the courier, carting the boxes into the tiny spare room.

By the time the eggs had started to cook through, the whites crisping just slightly around the edges, Joy had shown the courier out—thanked him, to Lynn's surprise, for his help—and came full stop when she saw Lynn sliding out the fried eggs on to two plates.

"Toast?" Lynn asked, without even looking up as she buttered a slice for herself.

"Um. Sure," Joy mumbled, leaning against the jamb while Lynn buttered slices of white bread, spooned out some baked beans she'd warmed into the microwave. Joy reached into the cabinet and found a couple of glasses and mugs, turning on the kettle for coffee before pouring out some juice.

She watched Lynn as she brought the plates over to the small oval table placed under the wide, large windows, careful not to make her sidelong appraisal obvious. For the first time, she gave her sister a serious look rather than a passing glance. They had never looked much alike, Joy thought, bringing the cups of juice to the table.

She was tall and statuesque where Lynn had always been lean and curvy, even her hair—rioting and voluminous curls Joy would have killed for instead of her baby fine pale blonde that had about as much depth to its colour as a shallow puddle. But no one could deny they were related in the shape of their eyes and smiles.

Joy added two spoons of coffee, sugar and canned milk to her coffee with only half a spoon of sugar and a less generous heaping of caffeine to Lynn's, gave both a stir and brought them over to the table as well.

Lynn was already seated and biting into an end of toast she'd first dipped into yolk and then dredged in beans, her eyes focused on a letter she was reading in rapt interest. But there was more, Joy realized, sipping pensively from her coffee before touching her food.

A shadow of doubt, worry and sadness that made Joy think, perhaps she wasn't alone in her grief and troubles.

"So," Lynn began, deciding that the silence had stretched out far too long for comfort. "What's with the boxes? Thought you were broke and couldn't afford to buy anything?"

Though she'd tried to keep her tone neutral, there was a hint of annoyance that snuck in towards the end and the lash of it stung Joy's already frayed nerves. Of course Lynn would think that she had frittered away more money on excessive purchases. That was the spoiled, pampered image she'd so carefully constructed, after all. Living the life of Guicci, Dior and all things Prada.

"I wasn't shopping." Stomach churning in queasy shock, Joy stabbed at her beans. "My things. Mom and dad sent them over." Every last garment and trinket she'd left behind in Marseilles. To mask the sniffle of tears, Joy took a long, deep drink from her juice.

"How did they know to send it here?" Lynn wondered as a little stab of guilt trickled through. Breaking her toast in half she dusted the crumbs from her fingers.

Joy shrugged rather than answer the question honestly. What would be the point in telling Lynn that she'd made a call home two nights ago?

All her life, she'd dreamt and wished and hoped for a normal family. One where she hadn't gone unnoticed or uncared for. But no, the needs of a daughter weren't nearly as vital or important as chairing some new committee, or landing a speaking engagement with Oxford, or hosting some dignified dinner that landed the French Prime Minister in your back pocket.

She had and always would be just Jocelyn, as valuable as any trinket—so long as she'd adhered to her parents vision of the perfect little prima ballerina. The one they'd so desperately hoped she'd become.

It didn't matter that Joy had wanted more for herself than the stage. And when she'd told them as much, when she'd bowed away from their dreams, Joy had become worthless, and worse—forgettable. A disgrace that could not and would not be born. So she'd left and smothered her hurt with glitzy parties and reckless affairs with much older, and sometimes married, famous men.

"Joy?"

"Hm?" pulled from deep thoughts, Joy snapped her eyes to Lynn's that looked at her in question.

"I said, 'Did you need any help unpacking'?"

Joy shrugged again, a gesture that Lynn was quickly beginning to understand was part of her little sister's armour.

"We have some time this morning, first clients don't start to roll in until around ten. I could have Blake or Karla watch the lines and door while we unpack, get you settled?"

Her throat was seizing, Joy realized in dismay, and tried to speak over the huge lump that was forming. Jesus, she couldn't have more tears left to cry over this. And there wasn't a way in hell that she was going to shed them in front of Lynn.

"I'll do it." The words came out harder then she'd meant them too, but at least there wasn't any wavering notes of sadness as she'd feared there might be. "In fact," pushing out of her seat, Joy moved from the table, "not really very hungry."

Lynn watched the retreat of Joy's back and bit down on the urge to curse. So much for trying to help, she thought, and if that's what being a proper sister was going to get her, then Joy Summer could get on with it alone.

Unaware that behind closed doors, Joy curled up on the floor and wept silent tears, Lynn returned to her breakfast, browsing the morning paper on the latest news around the world.