held high, she moved across the room, wishing for a flashlight instead of the fireplace along the back wall as she searched in vain for Devin. The wooden floor beneath her feet was rough and uneven in places, and her new shoes had little traction. If she tripped amid all these suspicious stares and snarls of disapproval, the detective wouldn’t have to worry about his job, as his autopsy photos would be Exhibit A at her murder trial.
“Antonio?” she asked the bartender, pleased her voice didn’t tremble.
Heavyset with razor sharp eyes, he said nothing and pointed to the back corner of the room.
Where else?
Bracing herself, she carefully picked her way around the tables. As she got closer, she saw the gleam of his black hair reflected by the old-fashioned lantern on the wall next to him. He was hunched over a tumbler of what was certainly whiskey, his long fingers rhythmically stroking the sides of the glass.
Her heart contracted. Desire invaded her as she focused on his hands, the concentrated stare, the care with which he touched, as she imagined he’d caress her skin.
When she stopped beside his table, he looked up. His green eyes, so in contrast to his bronzed skin, pierced her, and she swore he could see through her into every fantasy she’d ever had about him.
And there were a number to choose from.
She’d lost her mind. She wanted him without reason. He was wounded, and she was going to save him. Like the stray cats, dogs and even birds she’d taken in as a child, she’d tend and encourage until he could move freely in his own world.
He’d given her little-to-zero motivation except for a few hot looks and riding to the rescue when she and her friends had asked him for help.
But she also couldn’t forget the text. For her? Or for someone else? Regardless, the emotion behind the message and the possibility of them together dangled before her like a carrot she couldn’t look away from, couldn’t deny she craved.
Oh, yeah, she’d lost her mind.
She shivered with delight as he wrapped his fingers around her wrist and tugged her into the chair beside him. Finally, finally, he was going to give in to the desire crackling the air whenever they were together. She had no idea why he’d held back, but that didn’t matter anymore. They could—
“Are you an angel?” he asked, his voice slurred just before he pressed his lips to the racing pulse beneath her jaw.
Terrific. He was completely trashed.
Her fantasy went up in a puff of smoke.
Though the movement cost her a great deal, she jerked her head away. “It’s Calla,” she said firmly. Swallowing her pride when his face remained dazed, she added, “Calla Tucker.”
“Calla,” he murmured and she swore she got a buzz from his breath as he leaned toward her. “I missed you.”
“Do you dream of me?” she couldn’t help asking.
“Always.”
His mouth moved across her cheek toward her lips, and she closed her eyes as need washed over her. With an exquisite gentleness she’d never imagined him capable of, he cupped her jaw in his palm and laid his lips over hers.
He slid his tongue into her mouth, stroking, enticing … promising. She gave in return. For a single moment in time, she enjoyed his single-focused attention and passion. Still, she wanted more.
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