But not like this.
She pulled away when he would have let the kiss go on. She
scooted her chair back to extend the distance.
His striking eyes were muddled. He was troubled and confused.
She wouldn’t let him stay there.
“I had cake,” she blurted, “but I had to trade it to find
you.”
A light shone from within. “Cake?”
“From Shelby and Trevor’s wedding. Remember? You were supposed
to be there.”
“Yeah, she’s nice, and she can cook. I was at the hospital.
Sorry.”
She tensed. “Hospital?”
“Last night anyway.” He cocked his head, looking lost. “Or
maybe this morning.”
“What happened?” Her gaze flew over him, searching for wounds.
“How were you hurt?”
He turned, revealing a white bandage on the back of his head.
“Knocked out.”
“When?”
“Last night.” Again, he angled his head as if remembering
required a great deal of thought. “Or maybe this morning.”
She was fairly certain that a man who’d sustained a head wound
in the past twenty-four hours hadn’t been prescribed alcohol. Snatching his
half-full tumbler before he could take another sip, she grabbed his hand. “You
should be home in bed, not here.”
“Bed?” He grinned. “If you say so...”
Her carnal and practical sides were officially at war. She
should reject him; she should comfort him. She wanted him; she hated what he was
doing to himself.
She’d seen him have a beer or a glass of whiskey, but she’d
never imagined him so out of control, leaving himself so vulnerable. So
susceptible to despair.
“Bed to sleep,” she said to him. “You have to rest.”
“I’ll rest when I’m dead.”
“Yes, well, I imagine that glorious moment isn’t too far away.”
She tugged him to a shaky stand, then guided him to the bar. “We need a cab,”
she said to the bartender.
Clearly, he didn’t like a woman taking control in his manly
establishment as he cast a glance at Devin, then back at her. “He seems fine to
me.”
“I’ll have—” Devin’s head drooped and only Calla holding him up
kept him from collapsing to the floor.
“Sure.” Calla grunted under the weight propping up Devin. “He’s
fine. On the other hand, I know a really good lawyer....”
The bartender held her gaze, unblinking, and she had long
enough to consider how she’d escape the bar with a half-conscious Devin without
help. Considering the barkeep’s hard, dark brown stare, she quickly amended her
worry to
without permission.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, picking up the phone receiver behind
the bar. After a brief conversation, he turned to her. “Cab’ll be here in a
minute.”
“Great. Thanks. But it’ll take me at least ten to drag him to
the door.” She gave him her best beauty queen smile. “Any chance you could give
me a hand?”
With an ill-tempered sigh, he rounded the bar and shouldered
half of Devin’s weight. Together, they partly walked, partly dragged him to the
door.
Bleary-eyed, Devin’s head swayed from Calla to the bartender.
“Babe, you’re really hot, but I’m not doin’ a three-way with another dude.”
Oh, good grief.
“I’ll try to contain my disappointment,” she said dryly.
Once their odd trio stumbled their way through the open door
and onto the sidewalk, a cab was waiting at the curb. With the bartender’s help,
Calla managed to tuck Devin into the taxi. From her tasseled bag—a dead match to
her dress—she dug out twenty bucks and handed her helper the money.
“His bill was fifty,” he growled.
“Of course it was.” Reaching back in her bag, she came up with
two more twenties, which she handed him before he ambled back inside the
bar.
She dearly hoped the cabbie took credit cards. Plus, she was
picking Devin’s pocket the moment she got him horizontal. And that was all she
was doing. Well, after groping his firm-looking butt.
Damn.
She was back in
fantasyland.
Though, with her flowers, cake and taffeta, she looked more
suited to a game of Candyland, while Devin looked as if he was in the midst of
escaping Call of Duty, the Hellfire and Brimstone version.
“I live on West 22nd Street,” Devin mumbled when she climbed
inside the car. He dropped his head into her lap. “Near the museum.”
“I know.” Unable to resist running her fingers through Devin’s
silky hair, she gave the cabbie the exact address. “How do you afford to live
there on a detective’s salary, by the way?”
“My landlord gives a break to cops.” His hand slid down her
dress. “How long is this thing?” Basically answering his own question, she felt
him reach the hem and start gliding his fingers up, under the the taffeta this
time.
While trying not to focus on the fact that several dreams she’d
spent months dwelling on were currently coming true, she realized a big flaw in
her plan.
How was she going to get him horizontal to grope him? And,
worse, how was she going to get him from the cab to the elevator? Though in a
nice neighborhood, Devin’s apartment didn’t lean toward a doorman. She was out
of cash to bribe the cabbie with.
She could call her friends, but two of them were on their way
to their honeymoon in Switzerland and the other two—if she knew Victoria and her
boyfriend, Jared, well enough—were already celebrating on their own by now.
She asked the cabbie to head to her apartment instead of
Devin’s. At least there she was pretty sure she could find a neighbor to
help.
“Your place?” Devin asked. “How big is the bed?”
“Big enough.”
The tips of Devin’s fingers brushed her panties. “Whoa,
Detective,” she said, clamping her thighs together. “We barely know each other.
Let’s commit a few misdemeanors before we move on to felonies.”
“Calla,” he breathed. “I know you.”
Closing her eyes, she swallowed. What had she done to deserve
this torture? How long had she dreamed of him touching her, wanting her?
“Already did felony assault,” Devin mumbled.
“You— What?”
He ran his hand across her upper thigh. “Glad you dumped that
other guy. We can have a good time all on our own.”
And yet she had the feeling he’d pass out long before her “good
time” was fully realized. “Felony assault?”
“Some guy. Didn’t hit him. He hit me.” His fingers dug briefly
into her skin. “He can’t come to bed with us, either.”
She patted his back. “Fine. You, me, bed. Felony assault?”
“Shoulda been. No score, though.”
“What score?”
“Yankees lost. Lost twenty bucks on those bums.”
“Devin, please.” She grabbed his hand as it again inched toward
the juncture of her thighs. “Focus. Who hit you?”
“Somebody hit me?” He lifted his head, which he laid against
her breast. “Had to be me, I guess. The Yankees sure aren’t gettin’ enough.
They’d need a damn GPS to find the ball. How ’bout a little TLC?”
As his lips moved against her neck, she fought back the tide of
desire.
This was getting her nowhere. Drunk and concussed people didn’t
have coherent conversations. She needed to get him home and into bed. She should
probably call the hospital and find out what the doctor had actually told him to
do to care for his injury, since she couldn’t imagine bellying up to the bar was
listed on the discharge papers.
Still, she had one question left that she was positive he could
answer. “The sign above the door at the pub, what does it mean?”
“I would prefer whiskey.”
Of course he did.
2
D
EVIN
ROLLED
OVER
, and his head throbbed in
retaliation.
“I’m supposed to be dead,” he groaned.
His mouth felt as though somebody had filled it full of cotton.
His body was stiff; his energy level was depleted by the rolling. And had he
mentioned the head-throbbing?
Then he smelled her.
Calla. So full of hope and brightness.
Her warm vanilla scent surrounded him, comforting even though
he didn’t deserve solace or sympathy. Maybe he had something to live for, after
all.
Flashes of the night before, however, returned in a wave of
panic and humiliation. Snippets of conversation about cake, three-ways and hits.
Whether those were mob hits or his continual focus on the Yankees’ lousy batting
average, he wasn’t sure. Him kissing her, shoving his hand beneath her
skirt.
Please, oh, please, tell me I didn’t
actually do that.
Course the Almighty wasn’t listening as a wave of nausea turned
his stomach. Not that he deserved mercy regardless.
He chanced opening his eyes, surprised when no further pain
assaulted him. The room was dark, with only a strip of light shining under the
door and a star-shaped night-light plugged into the wall to his right.
Hold everything.
This wasn’t his apartment, and he certainly wasn’t in his bed.
Squinting, he could make out the white-and-pink rose-laden comforter covering
him. Beneath the sheet—also pink—he was naked.
Oh, man. Oh, no. Please. No.
Guilt shot through every cell in his body. Surely he hadn’t had
sex with her. He wouldn’t have taken advantage of her that way. Not even he
could have done that.
Fear drove him from the bed. Each movement caused his stomach
to roll and his head to pound, but he gritted his teeth and kept going. He was
in the midst of figuring out what he could wear when he saw his clothes neatly
folded on the dresser.
He wasn’t sure what that level of care said, but knew he
shouldn’t think about the implications too long.
And yet, the dread that he’d given into his baser needs with
Calla when he’d promised himself not to go near her was nearly overwhelmed by
the anxiety that she was, even now, planning their wedding. Both scenarios gave
him the motivation to stumble into the bathroom, splash water on his face and
hair, rinse with the mouthwash he found beneath the sink, get dressed then crack
the bedroom door.
Immediately, he smelled bacon.
Surprisingly, his stomach whimpered with need. If he could get
his hands on that bacon, a gallon of coffee and four or ten aspirin, he might
make it through the day.
With a confidence he didn’t feel, he strode through the living
room to the bar-high counter bordering the kitchen.
Wearing a robe the color of cotton candy, she stood in front of
the stove. Her tanned and toned legs peaked from beneath the robe’s hem. Her
long blond hair was piled on top of her head in a messy mass that turned him on
in a big way.
But then wasn’t everything associated with her arousing?
“Bacon?” he managed to croak.
She smiled at him over her shoulder. “I thought I heard water
running. Pretty fast shower.”
“I didn’t take a shower.”
The smile turned to a scowl. “Why not? I put out fresh soap and
shampoo. Not my girly stuff, either.”
“I’m probably in your way.”
“You’re not. Don’t you want bacon?” When he nodded, she added,
“Breakfast will take a few more minutes. Plenty of time for a shower.”
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“It’s Sunday. Wanna take a shower or tell me about last
night?”
He headed back to the bedroom. In the shower, he acknowledged
the hot, powerful spray from overhead cleared much of his confusion.
One, sex between him and Calla was still imaginary. A
realization that was both good and bad.
Two, his head didn’t hurt just because he’d overindulged in
whiskey. He’d been whacked on the back of the head. Reaching behind him, he
found a bandage and smooth skin around the edges. Hell. Somebody’d shaved a
section of his head. He wasn’t vain about stuff like that but still...a bald
spot?
Not only did he not have game, his game was on strike.
For the shaving and bandage, he recalled a hospital nurse. For
the assault he drew a blank.
He shook his head, which did nothing but increase the incessant
pounding.
Bracing his forehead against the tiled shower stall, he fought
to push through the clouds clogging his memory, but the deluge of water only
made him wonder if he was supposed to get his bandage wet, and, if he did, would
he die of an antibiotic-resistant bacterial infection or simply start leaking
brain fluid that would swirl down the drain?
And, if so, would that please happen now?
Until one of those glorious moments occurred, he might as well
make the woman who promised to feed him happy. He reached for the mini hotel
shampoo she’d obviously set out for him, but was distracted by the large bottles
belonging to her. Leaning close, he inhaled vanilla and sugar and his head
immediately stopped pounding.
Contentment washed over him, even as hunger to be near her ran
rampant. She’d tempted him for months, even though he knew they couldn’t be
together. She was too bright and pure, and he wasn’t about to drag her into his
crappy life and past.
He resisted the urge to cover himself in her scent and washed
quickly with the hotel-size green tea products. Once he’d dressed and headed
toward the kitchen a second time, he acknowleged she’d been right. The shower
had steadied him.
Course a lot of his memory was muddled, and that was going to
be a problem. From past experience, he knew she was relentless when she was
after something. He sure didn’t think she’d let him get away with a free
breakfast and hot shower.
As he walked from the bedroom toward the kitchen, she was
dishing scrambled eggs onto a plate already groaning with bacon. His stomach
grumbled in response.
“How do you take your coffee?” she asked in a cheerful, if low
volume, voice.
His pounding head appreciated the care. Why was she so good to
him when he didn’t deserve to be in the same room with her? “Black, thanks.”
He sat on one of the two stools pushed up against the bar
bracketing the kitchen on two sides. She handed him a heavy-looking mug, though
he imagined her cupboards were full of dainty teacups. A quick scan of the
counter proved his guess—a cream scallop-edged cup with a bouquet of pink roses
decorating the side sat beside the stove.
As he took the first sip of coffee, their gazes locked. Weak as
he was, he quickly looked away. He didn’t need to complicate his already tangled
life with his confusing feelings for her.
The silence lingered until she set a filled plate on the bar
before him. Maybe he could slink away, after all.
But he’d barely taken his first bite when she slid onto the
stool next to him and asked, “So, wanna tell me about last night?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Very.”
She pushed a small glass filled with orange juice toward him.
“This will help.”
Shrugging, he drank the juice in a quick swallow.
As soon as he set the empty glass on the bar, she pushed
another one in his line of vision. This one held tomato juice, complete with
celery stalk artistically leaning against the side.
He curled his lip. “I don’t like—”
“Drink it.”
As he often found in her presence, he did as she ordered,
though he would swear he hadn’t made a conscious decision to do so.
Surprisingly, the juice wasn’t bland, watery tomatoes. The
drink had a spicy kick, as if she’d made a Bloody Mary without the shot of
vodka. Though he had a feeling, based on the determined look on her face, that
he could use the added buzz.
“The vitamins in oranges, tomatoes and celery are good for
you,” she said.
He also had the feeling she’d told him that before. Not
surprising. This wasn’t his first ride around the block with hangovers. “Goody.
You know how I like to take care of myself.”
“Eat the celery.” When he started to argue, she added, “Think
of the celery as a carrot for the bacon reward.”
He chomped the stalk in two bites, then grabbed two slices of
bacon from the plate before she could come up with some other healthy barrier to
his fat-laden breakfast.
His obedience bought him silence, as she said nothing while he
inhaled the food.
“You’re not eating?” he asked when he paused long enough to
notice she wasn’t.
“I had a spinach omelet earlier.”
In his opinion, the only place for something green in eggs was
in children’s stories that rhyme. But also knowing she’d go back to the subject
of last night, he commented, “You’ve got a nice place.”
“Thanks. Because of all my pageant winnings, I went to college
on a full scholarship, so my parents gave me the money they’d been saving for
school.”
“Pageant? Like bikini contest?” He could certainly imagine her
figure earning piles of cash.
“No, like Miss America. You know, evening gowns, crowns and
sashes, questions about world peace.”
She was a beauty queen; he was a master marksman. If ever two
people were less compatible, he couldn’t imagine who, when or where. “You have a
lot of roses in here.”
“When your name is a flower, you have to go with it.”
“So why not lilies?”
“Too obvious. You’re not going to divert my attention from
asking about last night, by the way.”
“I figured it was worth a shot.”
“How about if we start with an easy question? Who hit you over
the head?”
He shook his head. “No idea.”
“Okay, not a good start.”
“Everything’s pretty fuzzy.”
“I’ll bet. How ’bout we start from the beginning? What’s the
last thing you remember clearly?”
He struggled to think back. “I picked up my suit from the dry
cleaners.” His only suit, come to think of it.
“You were coming to the wedding,” Calla said, gazing at him
with wonder.
“I was invited.”
“So you were. After dry cleaning?”
“Hung around my apartment awhile, fixed my neighbor’s ceiling
fan, then went to the bar down the street to watch football.”
When he stopped, she asked, “Did you get into an argument with
somebody at the bar?”
“No, I—”
What?
He recalled watching
the Syracuse-Rutgers game of all things, but had no idea what happened
afterward.
“Try to picture yourself.”
When he did, he was rewarded with a sharp jab of pain to the
back of his skull. Wincing, he shook his head.
She slid off her stool. “Why don’t you take one of your pain
pills? You’ve eaten now, so you can—”
“What pain pills?”
“The ones the E.R. doctor prescribed, but you didn’t pick up,
instead choosing to drown yourself in whiskey.” She pursed her lips in censure.
“Which was not prescribed, by the way.”
He grabbed her wrist as she started off. “No, thanks. They’ll
make my thoughts even more jumbled.” He realized he was touching her when heat
shot up his arm. He let go immediately and picked up his coffee mug. “Thanks for
getting them, though. I’ll pay you back.”
She returned to her seat, and he got a mouth-
watering
glimpse of her upper thigh. “You’re racking up quite a tab.”
Tab.
He pausing before drinking the
coffee. “I paid my tab at the bar and left. I headed down the street...toward my
apartment, but I saw...something.”
“Somebody you knew?”
Automatically, he shook his head. He didn’t think he’d talked
to anybody. Since he wasn’t much on conversation, he was fairly certain he’d
remember having one. Hell, he could have tripped over a damn dog and banged his
head on the sidewalk for all he knew.
But even a bungling move like that wouldn’t have sent him to
drown his sorrows at O’Leary’s.
“Somebody hit you,” she said, breaking into his thoughts.
Startled, he stared at her. “How do you—”
“You told me last night. You weren’t sure at first whether
you’d gotten hit or the Yankees lost ’cause they couldn’t, but since a picture
of the Yankees manager kicking home plate is on the front page of the sports
section, and you’ve got a bandage and a headache, I’m pretty sure you were the
one involved in hitting.”
Sometimes, for no reason at all, he found himself tempted to
smile at her. “You’d make quite a detective.”
“No, thanks, the job perils are a little steep for me. Who’d
hit a cop?”
He shrugged. He had some basic assault cases pending on his
desk, but nothing that would warrant clobbering a cop. And it’d been years since
he’d made the mistake of sleeping with a married woman.
Job.
She’d jarred his memory again.
He’d been doing his job after the bar. He had a vague picture of a short,
dark-haired guy wearing a ball cap and overcoat running down an alley. He told
as much to Calla.
“Why was he running?” she asked.
“He was a thief?” he asked rather than said, though the reason
sounded right.
“How did you know he was a thief?”
“He was running away.” But he hadn’t worn his uniform since the
swearing-in ceremony two years ago when he’d made detective. How had the guy
made him for a cop? Or had he? “He had a bag, a red lady’s handbag,” he said
finally as a flash of the scene came back to him. “I was pissed cause I had to
chase him. I knew I’d be late for the wedding if I had to arrest him.”
He’d known Calla would be furious. Plus, he’d wanted to see her
in her bridesmaid’s dress.
“Did you catch him?”
“No. Everything goes black then.”
“That’s when you got hit.”
“I guess.”
“We can be fairly certain. The ambulance picked up you and
another man from an alley.” When he looked questioningly at her, she added,
“After you passed out last night, I made a few phone calls.”