Sinfully Sweet

Yet here he was.

The irony was not delicious.

“I know, I know,” she said. “If you tell me, you have to kill me.” She laughed with a hollow sarcasm.

“That’s not even funny.”

Her face fell. She nipped at her bottom lip, then winced when that hurt. “Why do you want me to call the cops? I would think you wouldn’t want them anywhere near here.”

“They’ll do at least a drive-by and Sloss—” He tilted his head toward the street. “Those two will leave. Then I can leave.” He paused. “That’s what you want, right?”

“Yes, of course. But I don’t want you to get killed, either.”

“I’ll go out the back.”

“There’s not much cover back there. What if they’re waiting for you?”

Devlin had thought of that. Sloss was a bulldog—slow, thorough and unrelenting. He’d nose into every building and sniff out every avenue of escape before he was satisfied that Devlin had given them the slip. Even police intervention wouldn’t keep Sloss out of the way for long.

“Are you arguing for me to stay?”

Mackenzie looped the blanket over her shoulders, shawl-style. Her hair had dried into spikes and her nylons bagged at her knees and ankles. She looked like a punk grandma. “I guess you can sleep on the couch.”

“Thanks.” He let out a soft groan as he settled back. His ribs ached fiercely from Bonaventure’s vicious kicks. Judging by the stickiness where his shirt was plastered to his skin, the nasty thug had managed to draw blood, as well. After Bonny had caught Devlin supposedly stealing from the latest haul, he’d called in Sloss and they’d taken him to a waterfront warehouse and alternated between questioning and beating him. He hadn’t given up a single incriminating detail. After three months on this job, there was no way in hell he’d be made by two small-time crooks.

Mackenzie sat forward, rocking nervously. “Okay. I’ll make the call, if you think that will scare them off. But first you have to tell me the truth. How did you land on my doorstep? Were you waiting for me to come home?”

“No. This isn’t a social call, Mackenzie. I swear I wouldn’t be here if those two thugs hadn’t been breathing down my neck. I never meant to endanger you.”

“Yet you were ‘in the neighborhood.’ You knew my address.”

“I explained that. It was coincidence.” A slight exaggeration. He’d thought he’d lost Sloss and Bonny the first time, after he’d worked free of the ropes and slipped out of the warehouse while they argued over what to do with him. Getting out of their neighborhood had seemed like a good idea—until he realized that he had no money, no weapon, no ID and nowhere to go. It wasn’t as though he could walk into a pawn shop and cash out the ruby he’d managed to squirrel away.

He’d headed for Broadway, where there would be plenty of people around for safety. Because Mackenzie had been on his mind—he had to think of something pleasant and real to keep himself from crossing the line into the dark side—he’d thought of crashing with her as a last resort, but only if it had been a one-hundred-percent safe situation. By a twist of perverse luck, Sloss and Bonny had spotted him on Broadway, heading this way. Desperation had brought him running to Mackenzie’s door, minutes ahead of the pair of henchmen.

Devlin would have rather kept on going, but when he saw her on the street and knew she’d recognize him there was no other option.

If lady luck was shining on him, Sloss and Bonny had believed her when she’d spoken to them at the door and wouldn’t be back.

If not…Mackenzie would need watching. Now that he’d dragged her into this, he’d have to protect her. A complication he didn’t need, even though she sure was a sight for sore eyes. And a deadened heart.

She grimaced, still not trusting him. “You should have come to the reunion instead, and spared yourself the…whatever it is you’re up to.”

“I’m not one of our old high school’s shining success stories.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should reconsider your career path, huh?”

He wasn’t going to follow that line of discussion. “Make the call, Mackenzie. Then we can get some sleep.”

She stood and moved silently through the living room on unshod feet, picking up a cordless phone from the desk beneath the window. Despite her disheveled state, she was even prettier than he’d remembered. In school, she’d been plump and quiet, something of a wallflower who’d been overshadowed by her active, outgoing sister. The past ten years had been good to her. The baby-fat face had gained more definition, and the womanly figure now suited her. Suited him, too. The feel of her breasts pushing against his chest had been quite the distraction.

Thoughtfully, she touched the phone to her chin as she walked back across the room. “Let me get this straight. You memorized my address from the sheet sent out with the invitation to the reunion. Then you just happened to be on this particular street, needing a hideout…at the very moment that I was coming home from our tenth high-school reunion. And then, instead of saying hello and introducing yourself properly, you attacked me and pushed me inside because you were in a—” she made quotation marks in the air “—hurry.” She plopped down beside him on the couch. “Have I got it right?”

“More or less.”

She shook her head as she dialed. “Just so you don’t think I’m swallowing that baloney.”

He grabbed the phone and hit the hang-up button. “Don’t use 9-1-1. They can trace your call.” He punched in a number. “Here, I dialed the precinct direct. But be brief and hang up fast.”

She hesitated before taking a breath and speaking in the querulous high-pitched voice of an old lady. “I want to report suspicious activity. West 17th in Chelsea, between Sixth and Seventh. Two men. They’re busting into apartment buildings.” She cut the connection. “How was that?”

Devlin smiled, thinking of Sloss and Bonny scrambling for cover when the N.Y.P.D. arrived. The interruption wasn’t more than a wrench in their plans, but even a minor victory was satisfying after the disastrous evening he’d had. Three month’s work was on the verge of collapsing. “You did good.”

Her serious expression lightened. “Shew. Does this make me a gun moll?”

“Only for the night.”

Her cheeks curved with a smile. “This has been one hell of a night.”

“Fun reunion?”

“It wasn’t all that I’d hoped.”

“Why not? Looks like you’ve done well for yourself.”

She adjusted the gap in her blouse, then squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, giving him another glimpse of her new, confident attitude. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”

“Still working for the candy company?”

She blinked. “How do you know where I worked? We haven’t seen each other since high school.”

“I keep my ear to the ground. I hear things.” He wasn’t about to tell her that he’d purposely kept track of her when it hadn’t meant anything special. He’d been curious, that’s all. “You went to college and started at Regal right after graduation. I bet you’re a vice president by now.”

“Actually, I’ve moved on. Just recently. I opened my own penny-candy emporium in the Village a couple of weeks ago. It’s called Sweet Something. Several of the city newspapers ran items about the grand opening party. Mostly because my publicist got a few celebrities to come, but even so…”

He grinned, delighted with the wholesome rightness of her fate. By damn, the world hadn’t gone all wrong, not if Mackenzie Bliss owned a candy store. “I remember,” he said. “You always carried butterscotch candies in your backpack. And—” He searched his memory.

“Sugar Babies,” she said. “I had a minor fling with Zowies in eighth grade.”

“Still have all your teeth?” he teased.

She displayed them. “A couple of cavities. One root canal.”

On impulse, he touched the nick at the corner of her mouth. “Sorry about that.”

She pulled away, her lashes lowering as she slid a thumb over her lip. The gesture seemed too girlish for a twenty-eight-year-old woman.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked abruptly.

“I did, but, um, not anymore.” She showed her teeth again, going for a feral female look that didn’t suit her. Not even the new her. “I dumped him.”

“Yeah?”

She frowned. “You don’t believe me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

A heightened blush betrayed her. “Okay. It was more like a mutual breakup. The relationship died from natural causes, although I was the one who finally pointed it out. And it took me only two years to notice.” Her face changed. “This is dumb. You’re on the run and I’m talking about penny candy and my ex-boyfriend. Give me your jacket. It’s so wet it’s soaking through the couch.”

“This is the only chance we’ll have to catch up,” he said to distract her. It was better if he kept the jacket.

“Our one and only chance,” she said with an edge. “Right. So, you have my story. My parents got remarried, by the way. Almost three months ago. And my sister—remember her?—has moved to Manhattan. She’s working in a Tribeca bistro.”

“Sabrina Bliss,” he said, shaking his head. She was hot sun to Mackenzie’s cool shade. “I thought she’d be surfing in Hawaii or partying on a yacht in the Riviera.”

“Check back in another ten years. She might be.”

“Got a husband?”

“Not Sabrina. At least, not yet.”

“How come you’re not married?” he asked.

Mackenzie shrugged. “No one’s asked me.”

“Not even this guy you just dumped?”

“Well…”

“You turned him down? Why?”

Her gaze darted at his face, but she didn’t answer, only shook her head. She put on a smile, asking softly, “What about you?”

He knew he shouldn’t toy with her, but he couldn’t help it. She’d gotten to him. Not only via his overt reactions to her magnificent breasts and sweet mouth, but in some mysterious, subliminal way, just as she used to in high school. “What about me?” he asked, his voice grating as he turned her innocent question around. “Would you turn me down?”

She caught her breath, taking him too seriously. He had to remember that she was prone to doing that. “I guess my answer depends on your question.”

His laugh was harsh in his throat. “I’m not asking you to marry me, that’s for sure.”

“You’re already married?” she guessed, flicking her lashes at him again.

“Are you kidding?”

“Why not? I’ve read about those jailhouse marriages.” She reached over to unzip his jacket.

“I haven’t spent my entire adult life in prison,” he said out of a senseless need to amend her impression of him. She was supposed to think he was a lowlife criminal. And he wasn’t supposed to care.

She looked disappointed in him. “How are your parents?”

“Still living in Scarsdale.” His father, Ed Brandt, was an uncomplicated medical salesman who stayed on the road even longer than his job required. He was avoiding his wife, Marilyn, who wasn’t a bad person, but very difficult to live with on a daily basis. She suffered from manic depression, and her moods kept the Brandt household in a constant funk. Devlin avoided them now, but he kept track via his older sister, who was married and happy, the closest thing to normal the family had produced. Ed was nearing retirement and Marilyn was on a new drug, so Devlin guessed they were doing as well as could be expected.

“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.

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