Kitabı oku: «Sinfully Sweet»

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?”

Exasperating. She rolled her eyes upward and stared at the ceiling through wet, clumpy lashes. “Are you ever going to let me up?”

The timbre of his voice dropped an octave. A helluva sexy octave. “I’m considering it.”

“Decide fast,” she said through her teeth. “Before I start screaming again.” Now that her terror was gone—most of it, anyway—the sheer bulk of him was starting to affect her. He was heavy, hard and thoroughly muscled. She still couldn’t draw an even breath. Every time she tried, her breasts swelled, the tips rubbing against the open zipper of his leather jacket. If he didn’t let go soon, any screaming she did was going to be in ecstasy.

Thunder rumbled. “You’ve done enough of that,” he said, and she hoped he wasn’t able to read her thoughts. “I’ll be lucky if you didn’t alert the entire block.”

“What did you expect? Have you never heard of walking up to a person and saying hello?”

His eyes glowed an otherworldly green in the sudden flash of lightning. “I told you—there wasn’t time.”

She turned her head aside, unable to reason under his blatant scrutiny. “I don’t understand.”

“Mackenzie…” He sounded regretful. “I wouldn’t be here if I’d had any other choice.” He lifted his head, listening. Soft, surreptitious sounds came from outside.

He released her arms and stealthily levered himself off her, pausing to stroke two fingertips over her mouth. “Shh.”

There was a metallic clatter. Sounded like a garbage can lid to Mackenzie. Cats, she thought. Or rats.

Devlin was holding himself very still above her. She compressed her tingling lips, waiting. Rain pelted the windowpane. A truck drove by on the street out front, its engine grinding. Her heartbeat hammered. Distant honking and gleeful shouts from the neighborhood’s night people brought the outside world into their tense little cocoon.

She rose to her elbows. “Don’t move,” Devlin whispered. He stood and crossed to the window, as silent and skulking as a cat. The shade was up, the drapes open. He slithered to one side and peered outside, then slowly drew the curtains shut.

“See anything?” she asked when he remained by the window, watching from the side. Finally he reached past the curtains and closed the blind with a snap.

“No.” But his face was drawn into a worried frown.

She sat up on the edge of the bed and rearranged her rumpled clothing. One of her shoes had come off in the chase. Two buttons had popped off her silk blouse and the sleeves of the short fitted jacket that matched her skirt had been torn at the seams. Her blouse hung loose, concealing her bulging waist, so she pulled off the jacket and folded it meticulously before she set it aside.

She looked up and saw Devlin watching her, his head cocked. “I’m nervous,” she said, feeling defensive. Anxiety tended to turn her into a fuss-budget. After the divorce, her teenage bedrooms had always been surgically neat.

He shrugged. “Listen, I know this seems crazy, but you have to trust me—”

A loud bzzzz silenced him. The intercom buzzer at her front door had gone off.

Devlin cursed a single epithet.

She winced at the harsh word. Not that she didn’t hear it every day out on the street a thousand times over—just never in her bedroom. And how telling was that? she wondered. Her sex life was drab and unexciting, exactly like her last relationship. But now was not the time to worry over it!

“Don’t answer that,” Devlin said when the buzzer rang again in a loud, annoying blat.

After a couple of seconds, she heard the faint buzz at her neighbor’s door. Her bedroom shared a wall with Blair Boback’s living room. “They’re trying all the apartments.”

“Damn.” Devlin grabbed Mackenzie’s arm and towed her to the front door, heedless that she’d lost a shoe and was staggering crookedly. He stepped over her upended purse and listened at the door, then looked through the peephole. Abruptly, he drew back. Though he didn’t change expression or tense up, she sensed the freeze in him.

The lobby door clanged open and shut. “One of the other tenants buzzed them through,” she guessed. A large part of her was frightened more by Devlin than the interlopers who’d just gained access to the building. They could be harmless. Devlin was…not.

He squinted at her, his left eye practically swollen shut. A blue shadow ringed it. “Them?”

“Them. Him. Her.” She tried to act defiant. “It could be the entire roster of the New York Jets, for all I know.”

Her doorbell ding-donged. She jumped. He tightened his fingers, digging them into the fleshy part of her arm as he put his mouth to her ear. “Don’t answer.”

“But…”

Bam, bam, bam. They were pounding at her door, so forcefully the hinges rattled.

She shoved her damp bangs off her face with the back of one wrist. “Let me look,” she whispered.

Devlin shook his head.

“Is someone after you?”

“Shh. I’m listening.”

The uninvited visitors had moved to the next apartment. Mackenzie pressed her ear to the door. Low rumbles interspersed with a higher-pitched, and increasingly excited, response. “My neighbor,” she said, so worried she had to resist smoothing wrinkles from Devlin’s creased leather jacket. Her fingers itched to smooth his hair. “Blair Boback.”

Devlin’s face was grim. “I hope she’s smart enough not to let them into her apartment.”

Mackenzie smiled mirthlessly. “Oh, yeah. Blair’s street savvy.”

They heard Blair’s door close. Devlin watched through the peephole. “Going upstairs,” he said. “How many apartments in this building?”

“Only eight.”