Sinfully Sweet. Carrie Alexander

      “How’s your mother?” Mackenzie’s face showed her concern.

      “She’s feeling a little better, thanks.” Devlin cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the subject. He’d been ashamed by his mom as a kid and had never brought friends back to the house. Word had spread about the crazy lady anyway, making him an outcast early on. In Scarsdale, imperfection wasn’t tolerated. “My sister, Deb, looks after her.”

      “Do you visit?”

      “Not if I can help it.”

      Mackenzie gasped. At first he thought she was reacting to his callous disregard for family, but then he realized where she was looking. Her eyes were round. “Devlin.”

      Damn—she’d seen the blood. He should have been paying attention instead of worrying about her opinion to his cover story. And now she’d managed to tug the jacket halfway off him, revealing the red patch on his torn shirt.

      “You’re hurt.” She reached behind the sofa and clicked on a lamp. Her eyes got even bigger as she goggled. “Is it a gunshot wound?”

      “No. It’s nothing.” He pushed her hands away. “Only a scratch.”

      “Then let me see…” Within seconds, his shirt was unbuttoned and she was examining his abdomen. It was decorated with bruises and a couple of raw red scrapes that matched the one on his chin. Bonaventure had taken great pleasure in stomping him into the cement floor when the first cursory pat-down hadn’t turned up the missing ruby.

      Devlin sucked air between his teeth when Mackenzie prodded at his ribs. “Broken?” she asked.

      “Not for lack of trying,” he said.

      “You should see a doctor. What if your lung gets punctured?”

      “The ribs are only bruised. I’ve had cracked ribs before and believe me, it hurt like hell. This only hurts like heck.”

      “That’s hardly an educated diagnosis.”

      “Them’s the breaks.”

      She shook her head. “Why don’t you take off those wet boots and go clean up in the bathroom. There’s a first-aid kit in the medicine cabinet. I’ll make you something hot to drink and get you an ice pack for that eye. Then I can bandage you up.”

      He put out a hand, stopping her from rising. “Can I trust you?”

      She seemed about to give him the sarcastic retort he deserved, but then her features softened. “You must think so, Devlin, or you wouldn’t be here.”

      She was wrong. He’d been a deep undercover cop for so long that he didn’t trust anyone, even himself.

      3

      WITH NOT SO MUCH as a backward glance, Devlin went off to the bathroom, holding his side, his boots leaving wet, muddy tracks on her carpet.

      Mackenzie stared at her fists, knotted in her lap, until the door closed. Then she bolted for the bedroom, swooping up her discarded purse and shoes along the way. She closed and locked the door. After only the briefest of thoughts about the phone—who would she call, after all, if not the cops? Sabrina?—she reached under her skirt and began wiggling out of the ruined hose and confining panty girdle. Not because she was letting Devlin’s hands anywhere near the area. Just because.

      Ah, oxygen! She took a deep breath and let it out noisily. The hamper was in the bathroom with Devlin, so she kicked the offending garments under the bed. No time to be meticulous.

      She couldn’t put on pajamas and a robe, but she didn’t want to look dressed up, either. Frumpy sweats would certainly scare him off, but she wasn’t sure she wanted that. Not yet. Might as well admit it—her interest was aroused regardless of the troubling situation.

      Deciding on a sweater and jeans, she rummaged through the chest of drawers, startling herself when she glanced in the mirror above it. Raccoon eyes, puffy lips, hair going in every direction—disaster.

      “Staying alive is your first concern,” she muttered, pulling on the jeans and sweater. To that end, she checked the tiny paved backyard, saw nothing unusual except an overturned garbage can, then grabbed her cell phone from the purse she’d thrown on the bed. A quick peek out the door ascertained that Devlin—Omigod, Devlin Brandt was in her bathroom!—was occupied.

      It took Blair four rings to answer. Mackenzie ran a hand over her hair, trying to smooth down the bristles.

      “Talk dirty to me,” Blair said in a husky voice.

      Mackenzie exhaled in relief. Her neighbor often answered the phone that way. “Are you okay?”

      “Depends what you mean by okay. If the question means is my neck killing me the answer is yes.” Blair had perpetual neck strain from a twenty-pound head-dress she wore in a cabaret act. “If it means am I being held at gunpoint by a dangerous criminal, then no. A pity. I could use the excitement.”

      Mackenzie made a small sound of distress. Her knees gave out and she sat on the edge of the bed.

      Blair’s voice sharpened. “Mackenzie? You okay?”

      Half a dozen responses ran through her head, but in the end she only said, “Yeah, sure,” because there didn’t seem to be any way to explain about Devlin and the cops-that-weren’t in the five seconds she had to spare. She’d called only to see if Blair was okay.

      “I know the police talked to you, too, Mackenzie. I poked my head out. Say bananas if you have a madman holding you at gunpoint to keep you quiet.”

      “Plantains.”

      Blair started to laugh, then stopped. “Is that a joke, or a code I’m not getting?”

      “It’s a long story. I’ll explain tomorrow. I have to go and make tea now—”

      “Wait a minute! I smell cover-up and it’s not my makeup.”

      “Tomorrow,” Mackenzie said.

      “Hey, what about the reunion?” Blair shrieked, but Mackenzie pretended not to hear. She shoved the phone into her pants pocket, checked the hallway and scurried to the kitchen.

      Tea. It wasn’t easy to concentrate on normal activities when there was a criminal in the bathroom whose kiss had melted her panty shaper, but she filled the kettle, set it on a burner and took down a box of green tea with shaking hands.

      “Who’d you call?” Devlin said from behind her.

      She jumped. When she whipped around, he was shirtless and startling and she squeezed the box so tight the flap popped open. Tea bags spilled out across the floor. She dropped to her knees to gather them, her mind working, her stomach churning.