On her knees, on the very edge of the stage, just out of sight of twenty thousand screaming fans, she'd taken him in her mouth and made him come seconds before he strapped on his guitar. Or the magazine cover shoot Joey had interrupted when he'd walked into the studio, carried Anna to his waiting car, and slid his fingers in and out of her pussy until her orgasm flushed her cheeks and ruined her makeup. Or last month, when they'd had hot, urgent sex on the hotel balcony in St. Tropez, with photographers waiting to catch a glimpse of them just two floors below. And today Joey had a new game planned. Anna could hardly wait. She didn't know what Joey's bag contained, but she was wildly excited. The creative and dangerous flair with which Joey filled his music manifested itself in their sex life, and she always knew that whatever he had arranged, it would create-and satisfy-a breathless, desperate sexual longing.

Inside the marquee, Anna had her own dressing room. True fashion royalty, she glided through the assorted sea of clotheshorses, dressers, and makeup artists. The younger models, who'd idolized their icon for years, froze, awe-struck. She might be nearly thirty, but there was something about Anna Lamb's amazing face, coupled with that hedonistic reputation, that still silenced a room when she entered. She kept her sunglasses on, not (as rumor had it) because she was too stuck-up to talk to the other models or was threatened by them, but because she didn't want her glittering and glazed eyes to give away her excitement.

In the privacy of her dressing room and with unsteady hands, she tore open the bag. There was something inside wrapped in dark purple tissue paper. As Anna unfastened the package, the paper crackled, echoing the electric excitement, almost hysteria running through her veins. The violet tissue held a pair of sheer, pale pink lace panties, near-invisible wisps of string joined by a pale, soft pink triangle to cover her pubic hair.