Sinfully Sweet

“Here’s what I want you to do,”

Devlin said. “When they come back, you say you know nothing. Be convincing. Very convincing.”

Mackenzie spoke tentatively. “What if I don’t want to—”

He was fast. Before she could blink, Devlin was standing in front of her, dragging her close against his chest. The move was supposed to be intimidating—and it was—but the great threat was the way he made her feel.

Alive. Scared, but so incredibly alive.

“You’ll do it,” he said grittily.

“Or what?”

Devlin’s lips came down on hers, knocking out every objection with one striking blow. His mouth was hot and his tongue was wicked. The shock was staggering. Mackenzie hadn’t known that a kiss could be so savage and still turn her molten with desire.

He wrenched his mouth away.

Mackenzie was paralyzed, swaying on her frozen feet. “Or what?” was all she could think to say.

“Or I’ll never kiss you like that again.”

Dear Reader,

I sum up this book in five words: Bad Boy Goes Willie Wonka.

Does a tough-guy hero like Devlin Brandt have the same sexy charisma if he’s wearing rather outlandish seventies garb instead of a leather jacket and jeans? What if he’s hiding out from the bad guys by working behind the counter at a penny-candy store? In Sinfully Sweet, Mackenzie, the youngest Bliss sister, discovers that her old high-school crush on Devlin is still going strong. And she just might have a few surprises of her own up her sleeve…or in her candy dish!

If you enjoyed Sabrina Bliss’s story in The Chocoloate Seduction (Temptation #925), I think you’re ready for another wild ride into the world of SEX & CANDY. Indulge!

Carrie Alexander

P.S. Don’t forget to stop by my Web site at www.carriealexander.com to sign up for my SEX & CANDY giveaways. And drop me a note while you’re there—I’d love to hear from you.

Books by Carrie Alexander

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

839—SMOOTH MOVES

869—RISKY MOVES

925—THE CHOCOLATE SEDUCTION*

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

20—PLAYING WITH FIRE

HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

1042—THE MAVERICK

1102—NORTH COUNTRY MAN

HARLEQUIN DUETS

25—CUSTOM-BUILT COWBOY

32—COUNTERFEIT COWBOY

38—KEEPSAKE COWBOY

83—ONCE UPON A TIARA**

—HENRY EVER AFTER**

Sinfully Sweet

Carrie Alexander

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

Prologue

“I AM GOING TO DO IT,” Mackenzie Bliss said with all the bravado she could muster.

Sabrina glanced at her with an easy nonchalance. “You don’t have to do it.”

Everything comes easy to Sabrina, Mackenzie thought, taking in her sister’s sloppy appearance. In a denim skirt and a sleeveless ribbed T-shirt that showed her flat tummy, Sabrina still managed to look good. Whereas Mackenzie had groomed herself for an hour and felt like potatoes stuffed into a designer gunny-sack.

“I’m not going to force you.” Sabrina squinted into the distance, avoiding her sister’s eyes.

Mackenzie knew why. Sabrina was hoping that she’d fail first. If their bet was off, Sabrina would be free to pursue the gorgeous chocolate chef, Kit Rex.

“Hmm,” Mackenzie said as if she were thinking about bailing. It was only to torture her sister, who was one year older but didn’t often act like it. “Ah—no. I’m definitely going through with this.”

“All right, but then we have to go inside, don’t we?”

They stood near the glass double doors of a glam Madison Avenue salon. It was the type of place Mackenzie used to walk by with a guilty speed, as if the stylists might be standing in the window, rating the bad haircuts and fashion faux pas of the rabble who couldn’t afford their services.

“Hold on, hold on. I’m thinking about it.” Mackenzie adjusted the wide belt slung around her hips. A personal shopper at Barneys had sworn the belt enhanced her shape without actually drawing attention to its healthy proportions. An impossibility, in retrospect.

Sabrina had finally grown frustrated. “Really, Mackenzie, this is ridiculous. Get in there. It’s only hair, not an arm or a leg. Nothing to be nervous about.”

“Says you.” Mackenzie pulled her waist-length braid over one shoulder, feeling protective now that she was on the verge of cutting it off. Sabrina also had long hair, but she hadn’t even combed hers, just dragged it up into a messy ponytail. She was gorgeous nonetheless, although her looks weren’t very important to her. She’d probably shave her head on a whim.

The difference was that Sabrina didn’t need the reassurance. She had an interesting character, a striking face and a skinny model’s body, while Mackenzie was quiet, even shy, and a model-size twelve. She’d grown comfortable with her shape—most of the time—but avoided being the center of attention if she could, unlike her sister. Why Mackenzie had agreed to a bet that made her exactly that was a mystery as great as the Pyramids.

Two months ago, Mackenzie and Sabrina’s parents had remarried after having been divorced for sixteen years. The wedding had been a catalyst for the sisters to examine how they’d let their parents’ breakup misshape their lives. Swept up in the air of romance and possibility, they’d challenged each other to change, to find their own true happiness. Sabrina had even put up stakes—the heirloom diamond ring that had been passed down to her on the eve of their parents’ wedding. Their mother had chosen to start off fresh with a ring that hadn’t already been through a divorce.

Suddenly, the challenge had become a bet. Sabrina, the wanderer without a committed bone in her body, was to try settling down for the first time in her life. She’d also agreed to forego men until she became serious about just one. Now, two months later, she’d already signed a lease, found a job and developed an intense attraction with Kit.

Whereas Mackenzie was undergoing the opposite process. She’d left her long-time career as a buyer in the sweets division of Regal Foods and had invested all her savings in her own business, a penny-candy store called Sweet Something. She’d let go of her steady old boyfriend, Jason Dole, even though being single again after several years of comfortable, if unexciting, companionship made her feel like an untethered kite. Last of all, she’d agreed to put herself in the hands of a stylist and personal shopper and was on the way to a brand-new look, just in time for her store’s grand opening.

Cutting her waist-length hair was the last step. One she’d been resisting.

She’d always been comfortable with long hair, simply because she’d always had it. She was a person who rarely ventured outside her comfort zone.

Yes, that was her reasoning and she was sticking to it. It wasn’t as if she was actually hiding behind her hair. And she certainly wasn’t still clinging to an ancient memory of Devlin, who’d once said…

Mackenzie closed her eyes, succumbing to a moment of pure longing. All she had was memories, but they were enough to make a hot flush of desire rush up her throat.

Nonsense. Her lids popped open and she stared at the distorted reflection of her pink face in the salon’s glass doors.

Nostalgia, she thought. Nothing more.

It had been nearly ten years since she’d seen her high-school crush, Devlin Brandt. Even so, she’d never forgotten that he’d once complimented her on her hair—which had been about the nicest thing he’d ever said to her. Far better than the “Thanks, cutie,” or “What would I do without you, Mack?” comments he’d usually tossed her. Like fish from a seal trainer.

By God! She wasn’t balancing that ball on her nose for another instant.

Mackenzie tucked her bag under her arm and whipped the braid over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Sabrina groaned. “We can’t leave. I bargained my soul for this appointment after you broke the first one. Costas is booked months in advance—”

Mackenzie interrupted. “No, let’s go inside.” It was true that she’d already backed out once. She would not do that again, even though her heart was going thumpety-thump. “I’m ready to make good on our bet.”

“Oh. Well, that’s great.” Sabrina’s enthusiasm was obviously dimming now that it appeared Mackenzie would follow through. Despite Sabrina’s easy-come, easy-go attitude, she didn’t want to lose the ring they’d both treasured since they were little girls. That meant she’d have to stick with her promise to keep out of Kit’s bed…even if the only way to cure her sexual cravings was to gorge on enough chocolate to dip the Statue of Liberty.

Mackenzie’s thoughts returned to her own most wicked temptation. As always, she got no satisfaction. Devlin was merely a fantasy, not a flesh-and-blood, here-and-now partner like Sabrina’s Kit.

While Sabrina had once known about her younger sister’s crush on the high-school bad boy, it was far too embarrassing for Mackenzie to admit that she still thought of him a decade later.

Every now and then.

Like whenever she brushed her hair.

In a moment of unusual whimsy, Devlin had said that her long dark hair made her look like an evil sorceress—the opposite of the fair-haired, smiley-faced princesses who ruled their school. Mackenzie, forever a “good girl,” wasn’t even close to being bad, so naturally she’d loved the comparison.

The problem was that Devlin had shown no sign of being bewitched himself.

And now Mackenzie was grown-up. Devlin was a distant memory. She had to give him up, forever, for good.

Sabrina was holding the salon door open. Mackenzie sucked up her courage and sailed on through it. Time for her to cut that man right out of her hair!

1

Two weeks later

“I WAS CRAZY to think that Devlin would be at the reunion,” Mackenzie Bliss said, working her tail-bone even farther into the padded seat.

She received only a grunt in response, but that didn’t faze her.

“Y’know, it’s bad enough that it’s raining and my new shoes hurt and the spiked punch has given me a headache,” she grumbled, pouring out all her complaints. She was in her safety zone, the one place where she could make an anonymous confession. “What’s worse is that my stylist persuaded me to wear a panty shaper. Do you know what a panty shaper is? No? I’ll tell you. It’s a girdle in disguise, that’s what it is.” She tugged up the tail of her blouse and poked a finger into the bulge rising from her tight waistband. “See that? Like a lump of dough overflowing the pan.”

Before her confessor could look—should he even want to—she let the blouse fall across her slumped midriff. “But the worst, the absolute worst, is that I wasted four hours of my brand-new life and four hours of the brand-new fabulous me waiting for a man who was never going to show. I’m deluded, is what I am. Deluded!” She tossed up her hands.

They fell limply onto the seat. She didn’t have the energy to work up a really good snit. The disappointment of missing Devlin was too heavy, despite all her resolutions that she was never going to think of him again. She hadn’t realized until tonight what a large part of her motivation for change had come from the ever-so-slight possibility of seeing him again at the reunion of their high-school graduating class.

“It was my tenth high-school reunion, did I tell you that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Of course Devlin wouldn’t come. He was the baddest of the high-school bad boys. By the very definition of bad boy, he wouldn’t come. Reunions are for ex-cheerleaders and the jocks who haven’t lost their hair yet. The geek who made a mil with a dot com, maybe. Girls who organized the car washes and decorated for school dances? Definitely.”

That’s me, she thought. You can cut my hair and dress me up, you can give me a trendy business and a feature article in The Village Voice, but I’m still the girl who did Devlin’s homework.

Not the one he kissed.

“Poor, poor, pitiful me,” she muttered.

The cab screeched to a stop near her building on West 17th in Chelsea, a gently aged brown-stone with rent control. She paid the driver—who hadn’t spoken a word the entire trip—and shoveled herself out of the back seat, gathering her belongings with an unusual carelessness. When the booklet from the reunion fell into the puddle at the curb, she left it, feeling too disconsolate to make the effort. The thing was useless anyway. Although many of her classmates had provided lists of degrees, childrens’ ages, home and e-mail addresses, for Devlin there was nothing. Only an old senior photo and a name.

Devlin Brandt.

Halfway through the evening, she’d taken one of the keepsake pens off a crepe-ribboned table and scrawled MIA? beside his name. At the tail end of the party, having finally worked up some punch-drunk courage, she’d gone around asking about him.

The majority hadn’t seen Devlin since graduation day, when he’d arrived halfway through the ceremony on a dinged-up Indian motorcycle and then taken off with a diploma tucked in the front of his jacket and Misty “Most likely to become a Hooters girl” Michaelson whooping it up behind him.

Those who knew Devlin, or had heard rumors of him, had two words for Mackenzie: Stay away.

He was into bad stuff, they said. She asked what “bad stuff” meant and got back vague mutterings about shady characters, criminal operations and stolen goods. He’d spent at least a year in prison for burglary, someone claimed, one guy whose car dealership had gone under, admitted that he’d run into Devlin at a Yonkers pawnshop where the owner was known for being less than scrupulous about the goods he handled. Apparently the Rolex watches and diamond dinner rings collected from suburbanites who’d missed a payment on their SUVs were just for show. The real action took place under the counter. And Devlin was in on it.

Or maybe not. No one seemed to know for sure.

Mackenzie had finally tracked down Louie Scheck, who’d lived next door to Devlin’s parents. Louie said that his mom said that Mr. and Mrs. Brandt had washed their hands of Devlin after years of trouble had culminated in a prison sentence. He was rotten, plain and simple. Being a nice girl, Mackenzie would stay away if she knew what was good for her.

Stay away.

Wise advice, she supposed, but there was no need for it. She’d never even had the chance to get close.

Mackenzie jumped up onto the sidewalk as the cab drove away, spraying dirty rainwater on her shoes and hose. She tilted her head back, meaning to let out a deep sigh. A short huff was all she managed. Between the panty shaper and her underwire bra, she hadn’t taken a deep breath all night. You were really in sorry shape when you couldn’t even sigh.

The rain increased, pattering her face and running cold down the back of her exposed neck. A streak of mascara came off on the back of her hand when she swiped at her eyes.

Right. The perfect end to a perfect evening.

She trudged up the stoop, sliding her keys from the skimpy evening purse which was on a chain, slung over her shoulder. Raindrops dripped from the ivy that grew in a thick ruff over the lintel. The slap of footsteps running up the street made her turn, but before she could blink the blurry wetness from her eyes she was slammed from behind by a large, wet male. Whump. He had her up against the door.

Terror ripped through Mackenzie. She opened her mouth to scream, and the assailant clamped a hand over the lower half of her face. She bit at his palm, squirming against the pressure of his body plastered to hers.

Instep. She stomped.

Rib cage. She elbowed.

Scream! Filled with frantic strength, she wrenched her face away, gulped air and let out a howl that was immediately cut off when he slapped his hand over her mouth again.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” He panted heavily in her ear. “Promise.”

As if she believed that. Her idea of “hurt” and his were miles apart.

She went against instinct and forced herself to stop struggling, as though she were mollified by his words. She was thinking groin shot, if only she could get a leg free. The painful high heels she’d been dying to take off might yet turn out to be a smart purchase.

“Put the key in the door. We’re going inside.”

She made a muffled sound of protest against his hand. He didn’t wait for her to comply, just pried the keys out of her fingers and tried each one in the lock until he found the key that opened the vestibule door.

Her mind raced. Defense class had taught her to never let an attacker get you alone. There was no way she was going into her apartment with a stranger.

He muttered something that ended in “Hurry,” and shoved open the door, propelling her inside. His arms were around her waist like iron bars. She slumped, making herself awkward and heavy in hope that his grip would loosen and she could get away. One of her neighbors would hear if she let out a good, hearty scream.

The plan didn’t work. He jammed his thigh between her legs and boosted her body across the small lobby. The shock of the contact froze her reactions for an instant. Three steps and they were at the door. Her jagged thoughts splintered. It was just her luck to be in 1A. But how had he known that?

Mackenzie renewed her fight when he moved his arm to thrust her key into the lock. She got one hand free and blindly reached back to rake her nails across his face. Eyeball gouge.

“Damn, that hurt,” he growled, shoving his face tight up against the side of her head. She flailed. “Stop it. I won’t hurt you.”

His breath was hot on her face. His mouth—

The feel of his mouth moving against her cheek was horrifying. Again, her attempt at a scream was smothered by his hand. She bucked violently, trying to throw them both off their feet. All that did was send her headfirst into the door. It banged open and suddenly they were inside.

He let her go. A panicked cry tore from her throat. “Help!”

The door slammed, cutting off her best chance to alert a neighbor. Instead, she plunged into her dark front hallway.

His voice, roughened but soft, came from behind her. “Mackenzie, please…”

He knew her name! Somehow, that was worse. The attack was personal now.

She bolted.

The living room was on the right, but she ran past it, not wanting to be cornered in a room without an exit. The bed and bathroom were at the end of the hall. The bath was closer but she veered at the last instant into her bedroom, where there was a phone. And a window and door onto the enclosed courtyard.

She tried to slam the bedroom door behind her, but he was already standing in the jamb, holding it open. She had a fleeting glimpse of a battered face before she whirled away. Her eyes went first to the back door—locked. Was she desperate enough to throw herself through the window? It was too dark to see much, but suddenly she was confused. As if…

“Mackenzie. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Sorry? The familiarity in his voice was eerie, but she wasn’t about to confront him. Shuddering, she rushed to the window. He must be insane. A stalker.

The window stuck, the wooden sashes swollen by the damp weather. She was gasping, pushing futilely at the double-hung window, when the intruder’s hand closed over her shoulder.

In a last-ditch effort, she dove onto the bed, stretching for the phone on the nightstand. He crawled on top of her, dragging her hands away. “No,” she sobbed. “Don’t—”

“Mackenzie, it’s me.”

The calmness of his hushed voice reached her. She stopped struggling. “Wh-who?”

He let up a little, and she was able to turn her head. Lightning flashed, illuminating the room for an instant. She saw his face for the first time. It was dreadfully familiar.

“D-Devlin?” She sucked in a shuddery gasp, unable to catch her breath. Her mind spun with disbelief. “Devlin Brandt?”

He eased his hold on her, but didn’t let go entirely. They lay flat on the bed, him on top of her twisted body, with his hands cuffing her wrists on either side of her head. Face-to-face.

The moment was surreal. No more than fifteen minutes ago, she had been staring at his senior-class photo in the reunion booklet. Longing for him. That Devlin was a brash kid with a wise-ass grin and long-lashed green eyes, whose silky brown hair had a chestnut sheen.

This man was not the same, even if she discounted the scrapes and swelling of his beat-up face. His eyes were hardened, maybe mean. His hair was dark and stringy. There were hollows in his cheeks, stubble on his jaw, a thin scar above his lip. But he was Devlin. Her vision blurred. One image superimposed over the other. She shut her eyes. Opened them again.

Devlin Brandt. Unbelievable! “What the—”

“I’m sorry,” he said at the same time.

“You’re sorry?” She grappled with him, yanking her wrists from his grasp, but he wouldn’t release her even when she boxed his ear. “Let…me…go!”

“Promise you won’t call 9-1-1.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Her voice escalated. “You grab me at my door, force me inside—”

“I was in a hurry. There wasn’t time to stand around and chitchat.”

“You scared me!”

“There was no other choice. I had to make a fast move.”

She was remembering how she’d been warned away from him. He’s dangerous to know, her classmates had said. Involved in criminal activity. By the looks of him, he wasn’t even successful at it. There was a scrape on his jaw and a lump on his forehead. One eye was swelling shut.

She panted, growing aware of the dampness of their clothing and the compromising position in which he had her. Devlin was heavy on top of her. The smell of his soaked leather jacket was strong, and his hair was dripping wet. He’d been out in the rain for a while. Lurking? Then why had he overtaken her? Why didn’t he let her go? None of this made sense.

Various observations that had been pushed aside in her fear came floating to the forefront. He’d known who she was when he grabbed her. He’d even known which apartment was hers. His motive was obviously crooked….

“What’s going on?” she demanded. “How did you find me?”

“The reunion.”

“What does that mean?”

“I saw your name and address in the list they sent out with the invitations.”

Right. “But there wasn’t any contact information for you,” she pointed out, “so how did you receive the list in the first place?” Part of her recognized that it was absurd to debate details when her teenage crush turned ex-con was holding her tight in the missionary position of her schoolgirl dreams. How many times had she wished to have Devlin Brandt look at her as closely as he was right now?

A self-conscious warmth crept over her. She was no more a pretty sight than he. Her makeup was smeared, her shorn hair was plastered to her head, her carefully chosen outfit was a total mess—

And she was wearing a stretchy pink Lycra panty girdle.

Oh, hell.

“I have my ways,” Devlin said.

She narrowed her eyes. “Criminal ways.”

His face hovered over hers in the dark. Close enough for her to see that despite his condition, his grin was as impudent as ever. “You’ve followed my career.”

“Hardly. But I got an earful at the reunion.”

“Was that tonight?” He angled his head, looking down at her cleavage, which the underwire bra had pushed into the unbuttoned vee of her blouse and halfway toward her chin. The pearl necklace was tossed to one side, following the curve of her breast. “Is that why you’re all dressed up?”