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"Objective."  How was she going to remain objective?

Joanna Carter snapped shut her laptop, even though her notes on the delicious Spencer brothers swam in her brain. With a wince, she told herself to relax and sank further into the plush chair in the private jet terminal. She was about to leave known civilization for a remote Caribbean island owned by the two brothers who were the third and fourth richest men in the States. On their island she would work hard, play never and interview the two grown men whom she had adored since she’d been four. Her journalism career—her own self-esteem—depended on whether she could keep her cool and write the profiles like the award-winning professional she had once been.

Could she do that?  Hell. She had to, if she wanted to do something as simple as eating for the rest of her life. Too bad the only way to make that happen was to write an exposé of two men who had once been her best friends. And my fantastic lovers.

She scanned the mod techno terminal and worried her lower lip over the prospect of seeing the famous—the infamous—Spencer brothers after fourteen years. When she had lived next door to them in dusty west Texas, they had treated her like a third wheel, their buddy, their chubby little tag-a-long. Then they were as nerdy as she was girly. As skinny as she was chunky. As funny as she was dry. And when she turned eighteen, the two men introduced her to games, sexy ones.

And she had loved every minute.

But now?

I’m a wreck. She froze, ceased fiddling with the straps to her camera bag and dropped her cell phone in her brief case. Her hands were sweating, for god’s sakes, like a kid’s. She wiped them on her slacks, trying to suppress comparisons of who she was today to the two men who were food for every magazine from The Economist to Cigar. Gifford and Joshua Spencer were the worldwide darlings of green technology. Billionaires from Giff’s invention of super-sensitive wind turbines and Josh’s investments in other energy-efficient systems, the two thirty-somethings were alternately recluses or playboys of the global social scene.

And I am a washed-up investigative journalist trying to launch myself back into major publications. Trying to fill up my bank account by dishing dirt about my two old pals. Hoping to rebuild my credibility which I so quickly destroyed being a sucker for a tycoon who played me for a chick who needed massive cock and thought with her pussy.

She was not going to do that with the Spencers. Giff and Josh might have been gracious enough to consent to their interview, but she would bet good dollars they did it for old times’ sake. Everyone knew—why wouldn’t they?—that she was persona not grata at most magazines ever since she did a hatchet job on her former lover, Renaldo Costas, the billionaire CEO of a huge Brazilian gas and oil conglomerate.

Crossing her arms, she glanced out the windows at the cream-coloured executive jet that Giff and Josh Spencer had sent to pick her up and fly her from Miami to their secluded island near the Dry Tortugas. She was going to write a sterling piece on the Spencer boys and make it accurate, make it insightful, make it sing with their own personalities.

She squeezed her eyes shut and promised herself she would not be charmed by either one of them. Especially Giff. She wouldn’t look sideways at either, much less fall into bed. So what if she had measured every man she had ever met against the Spencers’ wit and intensity? She needed to return to New York in three days with three invaluable assets. Great photos of the two fabulously wealthy siblings. Sharp recordings of their interviews. And objectivity.

Really chilly objectivity.

Nice work if I can get it.