Chapter 7

They thought he’d tried to kill Reece Winchester.

Sid might not care if the prick dropped dead, but he hadn’t been the one who shot at the famous director. True, he had a gun and usually carried it. But he’d left it at home the night of the gallery showing. He was an innocent man.

“Jesus, you really blew it,” he muttered, rubbing one hand over his bleary eyes and lifting a bottle to his mouth with the other. He’d been drunk for several days, while he tried to figure out how to get himself out of this mess. “You shoulda gone to the police right away, dummy.”

Nobody answered. He was alone in a dirty, stained-sheet hotel room, where he’d been holed up since last Friday. The place catered to poor surfers who stayed four to a room, but it was all he could afford, and the rent was still enough to suck him almost completely dry of cash.

“Shoulda told ’em,” he groaned, queasiness warring with fear in his gut.

Friday night, when the shot rang out, he’d been stomping up the beach, fuming and wondering how to get Sharon Winchester alone to tell his side before she got it from her nephew. Maybe somebody saw him there and could give him an alibi. Maybe a security camera picked him up. Maybe they’d believe him when he swore he’d seen somebody else—a figure all in black and wrapped in night—shooting from the edge of the shoreline.

Sid had stood frozen with shock for a sold ten seconds after the crack of gunfire. He hadn’t thought about his own safety at first, and might even have been visible to the shooter.

The realization had finally put some haul into his ass. He’d run toward the street, frantic to get far away from a crazy person with a gun.

Good thing he’d followed his instincts. Because it hadn’t taken long to figure out who the real target was: him.

“Why didn’t you stick around and tell ’em who was being shot at?” he said, hearing his own self-pity but knowing it was justified. “The cops woulda believed you.”

Sure they would have. He was a fuckin’ art dealer, well known and respected.

Mostly. Yeah, he was an art dealer, but art wasn’t all he dealt. Heroin had a better markup, and more people could afford it.

It all came down to money. Sid’s gambling addiction was a ravenous monster. He had to feed it, which meant dealing drugs, as well as skimming off the top at his legit jobs.

If he went to the police, they’d dig and probe, wanting to know why he thought he was the target. Sid couldn’t tell them. If he revealed his theory of why the shooting had happened, he’d get himself deeper into trouble with people a lot more dangerous than the LAPD.

“Fuckin’ horses,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ craps. Fuckin’ Vegas.”

He owed more than fifteen grand to one of the toughest private bookrunners in Sin City. Little Joey was not one to forget a debt. So there were fifteen thousand reasons why that bullet had been monogrammed with Sid’s name, not Winchester’s.

It hadn’t been hard to figure out, given the warnings. They’d started with phone calls from guys with deep voices, and then his tires were slashed. A jackboot-wearing thug had come into the gallery last week, threatening to torch the place if Sid didn’t come up with what he owed.

Message received. The bookie didn’t want him dead, just terrified. It had been a warning shot. He’d been seen walking in front of the window that night, and somebody shot it out. So he’d been reminded of the stakes of this game: Fifteen grand or his life. He thanked his lucky stars the shooter sent by Little Joe hadn’t seen him on the beach before he’d run away. At least, he didn’t think he’d been spotted. That he wasn’t wearing casts on every limb said he probably wasn’t.

The very possibility, though, had made him bolt like an animal rather than thinking things through. He’d literally run in terror, fleeing through town, until his heart felt like it was gonna blow a valve. People out partying got out of his way, staring after him like he was a crazy man, and he was pretty sure he’d knocked one rich bitch right outta her Donatella Versace platform shoes.

A few minutes later, his brain had kicked back on and he called himself an idiot. He’d stopped, gasped for breath, and realized he was running when he should be making tire tracks. He’d returned for his car, hoping he hadn’t lost his chance to drive away. Unfortunately, he was too late. Cops were swarming. One bullet fired at a former movie star and all of Southern California showed up.

Watching from up the block, he’d lurked in the shadows. His tension grew, nerves straining, until he’d finally left. He had no friends to call, no car to drive away in, and no courage to steal one. Hide! It was all he could do, knowing he couldn’t go home with thugs looking for him.

The longer he stayed at this hotel—almost a week now—the more terrified he became. The shooter had probably already figured out Sid was lying low somewhere not too far from the gallery. He rarely slept, fearing he would awaken to the sound of his own arms being broken.

“Coulda taken a cab. Gone to the airport. The bus station.” He swigged some more bourbon, tipping the bottle back, draining the last few gulps. “Too late now. No money to get there. No cash to pay for a ticket.” He had a stack of twenties in his safe at home; in his line of work, banks were a no-go. But he couldn’t get home, even if he weren’t scared to death to try because it was surely being staked out.

He’d thought about making a try for his car again, but hadn’t seriously considered it. Joey’s goons, or the cops, would have his leased Mercedes guarded. He had no wheels, was down to his last twenty bucks, and was scared to risk even poking his head out of the crappy hotel room.

“How the fuck am I supposed to pay them back without my job?” he muttered, hating Reece Winchester even more.

All his problems would have been solved with one clear digital image. If only the rich bastard hadn’t been able to convince the paparazzi dude to give up his camera. Full-color pictures of the reclusive director and the bombshell in blue would have brought in a lot of money from the tabloids. Sid, having provided access to the photographer, could have claimed half of it. He’d tried demanding half of the thirty thousand Reece was “paying” for the camera. That would have cleared up his entire debt. But the photographer was a dick and wouldn’t play ball. Now, Sid had not only lost out on a windfall; he didn’t even have a job.

“Thanks to that son of a bitch.”

He wanted to get even with the stuck-up director almost as much as he wanted to get out of this mess alive. Not to mention outta this room. He was cracking up. He’d eaten only junk from the dusty vending machine in the lobby for the last six days. He wanted food—real food. Right now, a rare steak and a baked potato dripping with sour cream sounded like the closest to heaven he’d ever get. Glancing at his empty bottle, he realized he needed something else, too.

Over the next hours, as the blissful bourbon high began to wear off, visions of a tasty meal loomed larger in his mind. Joey, meanwhile, shrunk. He’d hidden for a long time; nobody could know for sure that Sid was still in the area. Even if they suspected it, what were the chances he’d be spotted?

“Nil,” he mumbled, trying to convince himself. “It’s a sure bet.”

Besides, starving to death sounded worse than getting beaten up. A man had to eat.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Can’t go out looking like this.

He dampened his hair, ran his fingers through it, then shook out his shirt and pants. He’d had nothing else to put on for days, and had been rinsing stuff in the tub. Another glance at his reflection said he wasn’t exactly respectable, but not too bad. Besides, the scruffier he looked, the less likely he was to be recognized—or identified by a waitress after he dined and dashed on a pricey meal.

Finally, he made his move. Opening the door slowly, he stuck his head out and sniffed the California night, surprised at how quiet it was. The world had seemed much louder from inside the shithole where he’d been hiding. Now, though, there were no voices, no car horns, nothing. It was eleven p.m. on a weeknight, and the neighborhood had settled down.

Knowing there were late-hour restaurants/bars down on Speedway, he crept out of his hole. He stayed behind cars as he walked across the gravel parking lot, his confidence growing with every step he took. Sure, somebody mighta watched the neighborhood for a day. Even two. But more than that? No way. He’d been totally paranoid.

Being out in the world, his rational self was coming back. There was a way out of this, sure there was. Reaching the sidewalk, he even started to picture it. He knew things about the artwork in the gallery where he’d worked until last week. There were pieces upstairs worth far more than he owed Little Joe. Sid had been there throughout the construction of the place, including the security system. He knew the position of every camera. He could figure out a way to get inside without getting caught. He had to.

With a plan developing, he began to smile. His steps grew more sure and steady. His car was probably still in the parking lot. He could get in it, go home, and get word to Joey about his solution to their little problem. No sweat. Everything was gonna be A-okay.

He was whistling, knowing the grumble in his stomach was about to be answered by a massive meal when he heard a sound. A soft click. It came from behind him.

Panic returning like a gunshot to his gut, he swung around. There was nothing.

“You’re losing it.”

His brain tried to calm his body, but his heart had started thudding and his skin felt limp on his bones. Taking deep breaths, he cursed his imagination. He was jumping at the slightest noise, at the touch of a cat’s foot on a porch, or a lock being flipped on a front door nearby.

Nobody was looking for him.

Besides, if the worst really did happen, if somebody really did find him, all he had to do was tell them he had a great idea and ask to get on the phone with Joey. The bookie was a businessman. When he found out he could get a shitload more than fifteen grand by lifting a few paintings from a rich Hollywood bastard, he’d probably thank him.

Turning around again to keep walking, he immediately let out a tiny squeal when he saw someone standing right in front of him. Someone dressed all in black, their face concealed by a hood, and by the mimosa tree overhead that blocked the streetlight. If danger were a physical thing, he’d have been knocked over. It wafted off this person who’d crept up on him so easily and eerily.

All thoughts of negotiating fled his mind. He couldn’t talk his way out of this one.

Turn. Run!

Before he could move, he saw the hand rise. It held something. “No, don’t, I can—”

Electric shock hit Sid in the chest. Running was no longer an option, because every one of his muscles exploded with pain.

He collapsed backward, hitting the sidewalk with such force he felt his head split open. His mouth slammed shut, his teeth plunging into his own tongue. Blood gushed from lips that wanted to form cries of agony but could find no air with which to do it.

Sid twisted, thrust and arched, not in control over a single movement. Pain. It was like nothing he’d ever felt. His body was completely beyond his control and he jerked and writhed, his muscles quivering, contracting, and spasming. Agony saturated each of his nerve endings.

The enforcer who’d come to collect on his debt moved above him. Tall and concealed in shadow, hard to see through Sid’s teary eyes, the person clicked a button, and the electricity ceased. There was no relief, though. Sid still twitched on the ground, his pants wet with his own piss, his body not obeying any of his brain’s comments.

“I’ve been waiting for you. Thank you for finally coming out.” The voice was soft, floating down to his ears on the evening air, barely audible. “You’ve made this a lot easier.”

“Ahh…” Trying to talk. Trying to think. Unable to do either.

Sid blinked, making out the dark figure through his twitching eyes. His attacker reached into a pocket. Pulled out a…“N-n-noo. Puh-please.”

The weapon rose, the muzzle pointing down. Toward his head.

“I’ll p-pay.”

“Yes, you will.”

“Money…can get…”

“Who cares about your money?”

What the hell? No money? No self-respecting bookie would say such a thing. “Not…from Joey?”

The head tilted, a glimmer of light shining on a pale chin. “Who’s Joey?”

If every inch of him weren’t hurting, Sid might be able to figure this out. Right now, only one thing sank in. This was not hired muscle here to collect on his debt. “Who…are…”

“I saw you last Friday night on the beach. I assume you saw me, too.”

“Didn’t see…swear.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t take that chance.”

A pop. A quiet puff from the silenced weapon. Sid heard it but didn’t feel anything.

Sid Loman was never going to feel anything again.

*  *  *

Although he’d warned her that the hours would be long, Reece had watched for any sign that Jessica was getting tired of working her ass off. They had both been in the office more than out of it since Wednesday, and so far, not one complaint had come out of her mouth. She’d just put in a full thirteen hours, on a Saturday no less, and insisted she was fine to come in early the next morning.

It seemed the more he piled on her, treating her exactly as he would any intern, the more she thrived. She’d sucked up everything she could learn, starting with sitting in the cutting room with him on her first day, listening to him curse, and offering suggestions that, while not workable, were worth considering. And when he’d realized there really was no help for it but to redo the screwed-up scene, she’d taken on the task of pulling the reshoot together like a pro.

He knew she was looking forward to her first location shoot in New Mexico, scheduled for three weeks from now. He only wondered if, by that point, she would still be pretending she didn’t want a personal relationship with him. No matter what, they would have separate rooms—he didn’t want her treated with disrespect.

That didn’t mean, however, that the rooms couldn’t adjoin.

So far, she was being amazingly resistant, even though he caught her watching him closely when she thought he wouldn’t notice. Once, after he’d whipped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, he caught her staring at his hands, and had to repeat a question three times just to get her attention.

She wanted him. But her stubbornness was keeping her from doing anything about it.

“Are you sure you’re okay to drive home?” he asked as they walked out of the building a little after ten p.m. Saturday night.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“We’ve been working a lot of hours.”

“I’m fine. As long as the duct tape holding my car together holds up, I can come in as much as you need me to.”

He eyed her tired gray PT Cruiser convertible, the only other vehicle parked in the lot, aside from his. He always heard the thing from his office when she arrived. It rattled. It squealed. It groaned. With its rust spots and faded top, he pegged the car as more than a decade old. “You’re putting a lot of wear and tear on that car. Maybe you should use…”

“Forget it, I’m not using a company car,” she said, throwing a hand up to silence him.

“How do you know I wasn’t going to say city bus?”

Gasping, she drew that hand to her chest. “Was that a joke, Mr. Winchester?”

His own lips quirked. “Maybe.”

Tsking and shaking her head, she replied, “I must be a bad influence on you.”

She could be. Or maybe she could be a good one.

Working with her so closely over the past four days, he’d realized Jessica brought out something youthful and fresh from inside him. Those were things he barely remembered being. It caught him by surprise. He hadn’t needed anyone except his family since he was a kid. But he had found he needed her around, if only to bring a smile out of him every once in a while.

“You really don’t have to walk me to my car,” she said.

“It’s late,” he said, noticing the streetlights weren’t bright enough to banish all the shadows.

When they reached her convertible, he waited for her to unlock the door, then opened it for her. Before she got in, he caught the faintest whiff of smoke. Reece reacted to the scent reflexively, his muscles tensing. He’d been that way since the day he’d come home to find his house in ashes.

“What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

Crouching down to look inside, he saw a black spot on the passenger-side carpet. He gestured toward it. “Did you have an electrical fire?”

“Not exactly,” she replied before catching her bottom lip between her teeth.

He knew the gesture, having seen it a few times before. She was uncomfortable, or she was hiding something. While he’d been ready to say goodbye, he couldn’t until he found out the rest of the story about the smoky smell. So he slammed the door shut.

“What are you doing?”

“Let’s go to the diner across the street and have coffee.”

“It’s ten o’clock at night.”

“They have decaf.”

“Does any self-respecting person in Hollywood really drink decaf?”

Ahh, she was catching on. “Come on, you need to build up your tolerance anyway.”

“But I thought we were finished for the day,” she said, looking puzzled.

“We’ve been working so hard, I don’t think you’ve even had a chance to go out for lunch this week. I need to introduce you to the local cuisine.”

“I brown-bag it,” she said. Her chin was up, and she sounded proud of herself. He only wondered when she’d had time to eat anything from that brown bag, considering he’d kept her on the run every day since she’d started.

“One day you might forget. You’ll need to know where to grab a sandwich to bring back to the office. I’m such a workaholic, you’ll rarely get to take a full lunch break.”

“Did Walter?”

“Never.”

“Okay. I only hope they make their tuna salad with mustard.”

Grimacing, he could only shake his head. “Disgusting.”

Entering the empty shop, he greeted the owner, Charlie, with a nod. “We’re just going to have coffee. We don’t intend to keep you late.”

“Ha, keep me as late as you want. It’s better than going home to snotty teenagers and a perpetually pissed-off wife.”

Jessica’s brow went up as they walked to an empty table in the back. “So are his kids really snotty?” she asked, taking a seat across the booth from him.

“Yes. I think that’s why his wife is perpetually pissed off.”

“Or it could be because her husband spends all his time here and isn’t home to help with them.”

“Good point.”

After they ordered their coffee—fully leaded for both of them—he got around to the reason he’d brought her here. He couldn’t stop thinking about the burned interior of her car. Arson was his trigger lately, and he wanted to know what had really happened.

“Now, tell me about the fire.”

She tilted her head in confusion.

“In your car.”

Charlie, working alone tonight, set down cups of coffee in front of each of them. Jessica smiled her thanks, and then took time to add cream and sugar to hers. She stirred, blew on the surface, and then sipped. “Mm. Great coffee.”

“Quit stalling.”

He saw her brain working to figure out what to say, and finally she answered in her typical blunt manner. “You’re not the only one who’s had to deal with a stalker.”

Reece stiffened. “Oh?”

With a humorless laugh, she said, “We ought to form a club. Stalkers “R” Us. We could show up at our meetings in wigs and trench coats, waving our matching restraining orders.”

“Not funny, Jessica,” he said, fearing the worst. If she’d been so reluctant to talk about this, especially after what happened last weekend, it must have been pretty bad. “Tell me.”

Her explanation came grudgingly. “I was dating a guy. His name was Johnny.”

He blew out a breath. “That’s a child’s name.”

“He has a child’s maturity level. Anyway, I ended it a year ago. He, uh, didn’t take it well.”

His hands clenched together in one large fist under the table. “How badly did he take it?”

“He became angry. Violently so.” She gazed out the window, her expression pained. “To be honest, he put me through hell.”

Funny how the air in a room could turn red. At least, that’s what color it appeared to be through his furious eyes. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. Not really.”

She swallowed, which told him she might not have been entirely forthcoming. Reece used all of his acting ability to not let her see his desire to throw furniture, punch walls, and find the miserable coward who’d dared to lay a hand on her. Which he knew that piece of shit had done.

“He took away my sense of security. I never knew if he was watching, if he would call, or show up at work.” She sighed. “Or break into my car and burn all my stuff.”

There it was. The answer to his question. Judging by the smell still lingering inside the convertible, the crime couldn’t have taken place very long ago. Considering the breakup had been last year, the ex was not getting better with time.

“That spineless bastard,” he snapped, bending forward over the table.

Ignoring their boss/intern boundaries, he reached for her hand. Their fingers entwined, and he squeezed, offering support and commiseration. Reece understood the destruction of fire, and how it felt to know your possessions had been sent up in smoke. He’d been relieved no one had been hurt in the flames at his house, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t regretted the loss of some irreplaceable things. He hadn’t cared about the financial cost of anything he’d lost. The emotional one, however, had been painful.

Fire wasn’t just dangerous physically. It destroyed memory.

“I guess if anyone understands, it’s you. I lost some books; you lost your entire house.”

“It was just a house,” he mumbled. “I had insurance. My dog was okay, and nobody was hurt. That was all that really mattered.”

“But what about the things in it?” Her eyes widened. “Oh my God, your Oscars!”

“The statue’s not as important as the credit on a résumé. Not a big deal. Other things were a lot more important.”

“Such as?”

He had brought her here to talk about her problem, not his. But he admitted, “Some personal stuff that was hard to lose. My sister and I did one movie together…”

“Together at Last!”

Not surprised she knew, he smiled faintly. “After filming ended, she asked me to sign her script. Then she signed it, too, and wrote something about the wonderful Winchester stars.” He shrugged. “Silly, just a pile of bound papers with some signatures.”

“That must have broken your heart.” It was her turn to squeeze his hands, offering kindness and understanding. She had grasped right away why he’d been more upset about a memoir of a special time he’d shared with his lost sister than a dumb gold statue. Not a lot of people would…but she had.

Charlie came back to refill their coffee, and Jessica slid her hands from his, curling them around her cup as she declined a top off.

Reece had gone back to sad-memory land quite enough for one night. He’d been distracted from the real issue, but he wasn’t anymore. “So, this Johnny pile of shit. Did you get a restraining order?”

She shook her head, suddenly looking embarrassed. “I was afraid it would escalate things and set him off even more.”

Which this Johnny had probably counted on. That’s what all abusive pricks hoped for when they harassed their victims. A vulnerable woman could wave a piece of paper with legalese on it saying he had to stay away, but it was a gamble that he’d obey. Considering that piece of paper was often the match that lit his violent flame, the odds on that bet weren’t great.

“It’s a catch-22.”

“Exactly,” she said. “He backed off a couple of months ago, after I threatened to turn him in for the vandalism of my car. I’d reached my breaking point.”

She sipped her coffee, looking out the window again, intentionally avoiding his eyes. There was no telling lip nibble, but he knew there was more she wasn’t saying. He also knew what it was.

“And now he’s back.”

She lowered her cup and gave him her full attention. “How did you know?”

“Are you forgetting I am a watcher? I pay attention to things. It became pretty obvious when you were talking about him. So what happened?”

“I got a call from him earlier this week. The same day I was coming in to talk to you, in fact. He saw the news coverage and claimed he wanted to see if I was all right.”

He knew better than to think that was all Johnny the Big Baby had said. “What else?”

She hesitated before admitting, “He wanted to know about you.”

“What did you tell him?”

She looked into her half-empty cup. “Um, I told him you and I were…involved.” Jerking her head up, she quickly added, “I’m so sorry, I know I shouldn’t have. I was hoping if he believed I’d moved on, he might leave me alone.”

He didn’t tease her about the confession because he knew men like this Johnny. Telling him there was someone else had probably only made her more desirable in his eyes. “Has he been in contact again?”

Her deep sigh and lowered lashes said he had. “I’ve spotted his car around.”

“What’s his full name?”

She peered at him intently. “Why?”

Because I want to break his arms for hurting you, and kill him for making you feel unsafe. “As certain as I am that it was the person harassing me who took the shot last Friday night, we have to at least consider the possibility it was this Johnny.”

If he’d known the words were going to bring tears to her eyes and make her mouth tremble, he wouldn’t have said them.

“Oh, please no.”

“It’s a long shot, Jessica. A thousand-to-one chance. I’m the one with the enemies and unhinged fans. Still, the police should know.”

“I know.” She sniffed. “I’ll die if it was him, if I was the one who put you in danger.”

“That makes two of us. But if I was the target, do you blame me for what happened?”

“Of course not!”

Shrugging, he simply replied, “Then how could I possibly blame you?”

They fell silent, and he relived that moment, that shot, the glass, and her ragged dress. No, she might not blame him, but he would forever blame himself.

“So what’s his full name?” he asked. “I’ll call the detectives and let them know.”

No-go. “I’ll call them myself. I don’t want you to get dragged into it.”

As if he wasn’t already? But despite how much he asked, she would not give him the rest of the details and said she would not give them to Rowan either. Apparently she’d realized there wasn’t much the brothers didn’t share. She instead insisted on calling the detectives in Venice.

Fortunately, Rowan and the guy were friends. He’d get the name. And then Reece would figure out a way to make sure that prick Johnny-whatever never set another fire. He did, after all, have experience doing whatever it took to keep sick bastards away from their victims. It had been his life’s work when he’d first come back here at eighteen.

After they finished their coffee, they headed back across the street to the parking lot. She would have a company vehicle by next week, like it or not. Before getting into her car, she turned to face him, lifted a hand, and straightened the collar of his shirt.

The brush of her knuckles on his neck sent electricity straight through his body. It thrummed and sizzled, probably because he’d been thinking about her touch every time he’d been with her at work. And when he hadn’t been with her at home.

“Thanks for the coffee, and the conversation,” she murmured.

Reece lifted a hand and caught hers, holding it against his chest. He stared down at her, and she gazed up at him, her dark eyes catching a gleam of moonlight. Despite the car horns and the rumble of traffic, they fell into a strange silence. The night felt hotter than it had before. Steamy. Sticky. He’d touched her in the diner, when she’d needed support and strength. But this was different. Very different.

Their stares locked, and he was back to last Friday night—before the shot. How it had felt to kiss her, to touch her. How much he’d wanted her. She let out a tiny sigh, and he knew she was thinking the same thoughts.

“I think I’m soon going to have to apologize to you again,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I know I’m going to kiss you sooner rather than later.”

Her expression something between a smile and a glare, she jabbed a finger at him. “You said you’d back off, that we’d be entirely professional.”

“We will be,” he insisted. “Except for one kiss.”

“Did you kiss Walter?”

“Would it help if I said yes?”

She wagged her brows. “Depends on if there are pictures. Could be kinda hot.”

“Not funny.” Realizing he never should have threatened to kiss her, he said, “Forget I said anything. It’s your call whether anything else happens between us.”

She was close, so close. So beautiful with her sassy grin and her shining hair. He couldn’t stop himself from stepping toward her, putting a hand on her hip.

“Don’t think that means I’ll find it easy to wait,” he whispered. He leaned forward, inhaling deeply the scent of her hair, and her warm, fragrant body. “Or that I won’t try to tempt you to make that call.”

She licked her lips, breathing deeply. He saw the way her heart fluttered in her throat, just above the collar of her prim blouse. Her pretty nipples pressed against her blouse, and a flush rose into her face.

She still wanted him. There was no denying it.

“Jesus, Jessica, you working here might kill me.”

Putting her hand on his forearm, she leaned up on tiptoe until her kissable mouth was all he could focus on. “Reece?”

The parking lot spun. Or his head did. “Yes?”

“The ball’s in my court, isn’t it?”

He lifted her hand to his mouth, kissing her fingertips, sliding one in his mouth and sucking gently. “Mm-hmm.”

She pulled her hand away, but she didn’t flounce off. Instead, she came even closer; he felt her warm breaths on his neck. Then she whispered, “I’m not going to change my mind.”

He blew out a slow breath.

Her lashes fell to half-mast, hiding her eyes. “At least not in week one.”

His heart stopped, and then roared to a start again as he took her meaning. Grinning, he watched her get into her car and drive away. She never looked back, leaving him standing there in his own damn parking lot. He remained there for a long time, shaking his head, trying to cool off and answer the questions swirling in his brain.

Questions like: How was he going to maintain a professional relationship with this woman? Had he really agreed to that until she changed her mind?

And most importantly, would week two be soon enough?