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“I woke up naked …”

Calla’s face turned pink. “I thought you’d be more comfortable out of your clothes.”

Devin did more for a black T-shirt and jeans than anybody she knew, but the view beneath the cotton was exponentially better. Not that she’d looked. For long.

And he was still caressing her hand. She inched toward him. Yes, he was worried—even if he didn’t want to admit he was. It would be wrong, very wrong, to take advantage of him in his current state.

And yet her libido was also needy and it was whispering seductively about the possibility of this being her one and only opportunity to be with him.

Before her conscience could talk sense to her, or he could think quickly enough to shove her away, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his.

Desperate as the move was, it was worth the reward.

He crushed her against him, bracing his hand at the back of her head to hold her in place as he drove his tongue past her lips. Her senses ignited, and he fanned the flames, consuming her like a man starved for air.

Finally, was all she could think.

Dear Reader,

So our Robin Hood gang is back, and this time the tables are turned. After two adventures, two solved cases and two loving relationships, a new threat has invaded to exact its own brand of justice—on Devin, our hero.

I had always planned Calla and Devin’s romance this way. I wanted the friends—Calla, Shelby and Victoria—to experience success by taking the initiative at righting wrongs, by making a positive difference in their lives and the lives of others. But the concept of what’s right and wrong with society, and who gets to decide, isn’t as simple as it often seems.

Challenging one’s moral code—in real life or fiction—brings out the best and worst in all of us. And that’s exactly what Calla and Devin are faced with before they, too, can find their happily-ever-after.

Happy reading!

Wendy

About the Author

WENDY ETHERINGTON was born and raised in the deep South—and she has the fried-chicken recipes and NASCAR ticket stubs to prove it. An author of nearly thirty books, she writes full-time from her home in South Carolina, where she lives with her husband, two daughters and an energetic shih tzu named Cody. She can be reached via her website, www.wendyetherington.com. Or follow her on Twitter @wendyeth.

Undone by
Moonlight
Wendy Etherington

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To law enforcement everywhere.

Your sacrifice and dedication are appreciated.

“The law condemns and punishes only actions within certain definite and narrow limits; it thereby justifies, in a way, all similar actions that lie outside those limits.”

—Leo Tolstoy, What I Believe

1

The New York Tattletale

October 12th

Lions and Tigers and Scandal Among the NYPD by Peeps Galloway, Gossipmonger (And proud of it!)

Oh, Dear Reader, one of our own has fallen.

And fallen hard.

Detective Devin Antonio (highlighted in this column last spring and summer!) has been mysteriously suspended.

Apparently (Oh, my, don’t you just love that word?) he found himself at the scene of a robbery last night. The suspect was apparently (there it is again) escaping as the detective arrived, so he apparently (oh, joy!) felt the need to not only slap on the handcuffs, but also use his size and prowess to subdue and control the situation.

I’m shocked and downtrodden. I’m horrified and sympathetic. I’m literally unable to get out of bed.

Kidding!

Though, NYPD, I’m, of course, on your side. I stand for truth and justice above all.

Apparently, there are some secrets in the great detective’s past he failed to share with those most important in his life. Will this derail his flirtations with a certain travel writer he’s been seen around town with? Will this get him (gasp) fired?

As documented in this column, he’s helped solve some high-profile crimes over the last several months, including the Jenkins Scandal and the Rutherford Theft. But those triumphs are unlikely to sway the D.A., who’s apparently tired of explaining to the attorney general about why corruption is so prevalent on our beloved island of Manhattan.

Maybe a hotel heiress or two will do something more scandalous next week … though I’m not counting on it. (Kidding again! I so am!)

Stay tuned for more apparently bad behavior and (please, oh, please) more hot cops,

—Peeps

I dream of you day and night.

“YEAH, YEAH,” CALLA Tucker muttered at the text message she’d received nearly a month ago and had yet to erase.

She couldn’t imagine brooding detective Devin Antonio had actually meant the words. And if, by some miracle, he had, he probably hadn’t meant them for her.

Of course her sarcastic response, Are you feeling okay? hadn’t helped matters. He hadn’t responded to that question at all, and when she’d tried to talk to him about the message, he’d acted as if he hadn’t known what she was talking about.

Yet she’d left her best friend’s wedding reception early because he hadn’t shown up as he’d promised and now she was scooting around Manhattan in a cab, racking up a fare that she was going to need a loan to pay for, simply because she was worried about him.

“You want me to wait again?” the cabbie asked as he pulled up to the police station.

She glanced at the amount, winced, then handed the driver a wad of cash. “No, thanks. I think this is my last stop.”

She’d already called Devin’s cell phone and sent half a dozen text messages, checked his apartment and phoned Paddy’s bar across the street from the precinct house—his usual haunt—all with no results. If he wasn’t at work, she was out of ideas.

Wearing a full-length, navy blue taffeta bridesmaid’s dress and a sprinkling of white flowers in her hair, she got a number of stares and two whistles before she yanked open the door and strode inside.

“I need to see Detective Antonio, please,” she said to the bored-looking clerk, snapping gum as she lorded over the small, dingy waiting room from behind a high, faded-wood counter.

The clerk tapped on her computer, then announced, “Antonio’s off duty.”

He certainly promised to take the day off, Calla thought peevishly. And if a luxurious and wildly romantic wedding didn’t get him to finally make a move on her, she wasn’t sure anything would do the trick.

And yet, here she was, making an idiot of herself chasing after him.

“What about Lieutenant Meyer?” she asked the clerk.

This got a reaction. Staring down at Calla, the clerk raised her eyebrows—which were dyed purple. “You got an appointment?”

“No, but he’s a good friend.” She reached into her bag and pulled out the piece of cake she’d put in a plastic baggie to bring to Devin. “A mutual friend of ours got married tonight, so I brought him some cake.”

Along with her proof of friendship, she gave the clerk a broad smile.

In return, she received a narrow-eyed glare.

Having lived in New York for six years, Calla knew she should be used to this kind of suspicious response by now. But she was from Texas, for heaven’s sake. Beauty queen smiles and big blond hair were both a birthright and an entrée into any event, anytime. She had no idea how to deal with Purple Eyebrow People.

“What color is that?” the clerk asked suddenly.

Calla shifted her gaze to the cake. “My friend Shelby insisted on making her own wedding cake and really wanted the roses to be aqua, but I think they came out icy-green. Still it’s—”

“On your head,” the clerk clarified.

“Oh. It’s a mix of golden-blond with champagne highlights. I had a great girl who did it back in Texas, but it was a challenge to find somebody here who didn’t charge three hundred dollars.” She leaned closer, so she wouldn’t be overheard. A woman’s stylist was a private matter, after all. “Eventually, I found this great color specialist named Kirk. He’s at Tangles on Bleecker in the West Village. Tell him Calla sent you, and he’ll give you a ten-percent discount.”

“Cool.”

An instant later, the door to Calla’s right buzzed as the clerk released the lock leading to the station’s inner sanctum.

Connections. This town was all about connections.

With a bit more confidence—something she sorely needed to counteract the prissy flowers in her hair—she walked down the hall toward the squad room where Devin’s desk was located. The couple of times she’d been there, she’d noticed his lieutenant’s office in the corner. Devin had always spoken pretty highly of his boss, which meant he’d grunted and shrugged when she’d asked what it was like to work for Meyer.

Knocking tentatively on the closed door, she jolted when a deep, authoritative voice called out, “Come in!”

The office was fairly small, containing a wooden desk, a guest chair and a bookcase packed haphazardly with magazines and stacks of papers. A man of about fifty with dark brown hair graying at the temples sat behind the desk. He started to give her an impatient stare, but his expression turned into a charming smile as his gaze raked her body. He rose. “Can I help you?”

At least somebody was happy to see her. “I’m looking for Detective Antonio.”

The smile disappeared. “He’s not here.”

“So they told me out front. I was hoping you’d know where he was. He promised he’d come to my friend’s wedding, but he didn’t show up. He’s not at home, and he won’t answer his phone. I’m worried.”

“Antonio can take care of himself.”

“I’m sure he can. Mind if I sit?” She dropped into the guest chair before he could refuse. “How about some cake?” she asked, holding out the piece she’d shown the reception clerk.

With a sigh, he sat behind his desk and took the cake. “You’re his girlfriend?” he asked.

Well, I’ve been trying … “No, just a friend.”

Meyer said nothing for several moments. “You have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“I always thought Antonio was a sharp guy.” He shrugged. “Truth is, he’s been suspended.”

Calla felt the blood drain from her face. “Since when?”

“A couple hours ago.”

Explaining why he’d bailed on the wedding. But he could have called her. Maybe she and her gang—as he liked to call her and her friends Shelby and Victoria—could help. “For what?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t say. It’s an internal matter.”

“How much trouble is he in?”

“A lot.”

“He could lose his job?”

“Definitely.”

Though Devin was closemouthed about his feelings, his life, his past, well, pretty much everything, she knew he valued being a cop above everything else. “But he’s a great cop.”

“I think so.”

“Then why—” She stopped as the lieutenant shook his head. He wouldn’t budge. “Any idea where I can find him?”

“Try Paddy’s.”

“Already did.”

“O’Leary’s Pub, then. Two blocks east.”

“Thanks,” she said, rising.

He flashed a bright smile. “Anytime.”

Even though she wore four-inch heels, Calla walked to the pub.

Hadn’t she strutted across dozens of pageant stages? Hadn’t she paid her way through college with said pageant scholarship winnings and graduated at the top of her journalism class? Hadn’t she made a life for herself in the media capital of the world?

So why was her stomach clenched at the thought of seeing Devin? At the confrontation to come?

Gee, Calla, can’t imagine why you’d be nervous.

Maybe because she knew he’d been suspended before. A fact he’d told her, almost offhand, though he’d refused to give details.

Being naturally as well as professionally nosy, she’d researched his revelation six months ago. She’d discovered little about the cause for his punishment. Personal reasons relating to an open case was the official line, and Devin, being such an effusive guy—ha, ha—had, naturally, not filled in the blanks. With little to go on, and out of character for her, she’d been intimidated to probe him further about his clearly painful past.

Apparently that day had now come.

She was looking forward to challenging that Irish-and-Italian temper. Ha ha.

She nearly walked by O’Leary’s before noticing the ancient-looking oak door. B’ fhearr liom uisce beatha was burned into a plank of wood above the arched entrance. Something Gaelic, she’d imagine.

And possibly threatening, she added as she opened the door and saw the tiny, barely lit interior of the place and its patrons. If possible, it was a step down, as well as infinitely darker, than Devin’s usual hangout.

Why couldn’t the man have a beer at Applebee’s once in a while?

Movement in the bar ground to a halt.

So distracted with worrying over Devin being suspended—again—she’d forgotten about her bridesmaid outfit. She really should have taken the time to change before racing off on this crazy quest.

Head held high, she moved across the room, wishing for a flashlight instead of the fireplace along the back wall as she searched in vain for Devin. The wooden floor beneath her feet was rough and uneven in places, and her new shoes had little traction. If she tripped amid all these suspicious stares and snarls of disapproval, the detective wouldn’t have to worry about his job, as his autopsy photos would be Exhibit A at her murder trial.

“Antonio?” she asked the bartender, pleased her voice didn’t tremble.

Heavyset with razor sharp eyes, he said nothing and pointed to the back corner of the room.

Where else?

Bracing herself, she carefully picked her way around the tables. As she got closer, she saw the gleam of his black hair reflected by the old-fashioned lantern on the wall next to him. He was hunched over a tumbler of what was certainly whiskey, his long fingers rhythmically stroking the sides of the glass.

Her heart contracted. Desire invaded her as she focused on his hands, the concentrated stare, the care with which he touched, as she imagined he’d caress her skin.

When she stopped beside his table, he looked up. His green eyes, so in contrast to his bronzed skin, pierced her, and she swore he could see through her into every fantasy she’d ever had about him.

And there were a number to choose from.

She’d lost her mind. She wanted him without reason. He was wounded, and she was going to save him. Like the stray cats, dogs and even birds she’d taken in as a child, she’d tend and encourage until he could move freely in his own world.

He’d given her little-to-zero motivation except for a few hot looks and riding to the rescue when she and her friends had asked him for help.

But she also couldn’t forget the text. For her? Or for someone else? Regardless, the emotion behind the message and the possibility of them together dangled before her like a carrot she couldn’t look away from, couldn’t deny she craved.

Oh, yeah, she’d lost her mind.

She shivered with delight as he wrapped his fingers around her wrist and tugged her into the chair beside him. Finally, finally, he was going to give in to the desire crackling the air whenever they were together. She had no idea why he’d held back, but that didn’t matter anymore. They could—

“Are you an angel?” he asked, his voice slurred just before he pressed his lips to the racing pulse beneath her jaw.

Terrific. He was completely trashed.

Her fantasy went up in a puff of smoke.

Though the movement cost her a great deal, she jerked her head away. “It’s Calla,” she said firmly. Swallowing her pride when his face remained dazed, she added, “Calla Tucker.”

“Calla,” he murmured and she swore she got a buzz from his breath as he leaned toward her. “I missed you.”

“Do you dream of me?” she couldn’t help asking.

“Always.”

His mouth moved across her cheek toward her lips, and she closed her eyes as need washed over her. With an exquisite gentleness she’d never imagined him capable of, he cupped her jaw in his palm and laid his lips over hers.

He slid his tongue into her mouth, stroking, enticing … promising. She gave in return. For a single moment in time, she enjoyed his single-focused attention and passion. Still, she wanted more.

But not like this.

She pulled away when he would have let the kiss go on. She scooted her chair back to extend the distance.

His striking eyes were muddled. He was troubled and confused. She wouldn’t let him stay there.

“I had cake,” she blurted, “but I had to trade it to find you.”

A light shone from within. “Cake?”

“From Shelby and Trevor’s wedding. Remember? You were supposed to be there.”

“Yeah, she’s nice, and she can cook. I was at the hospital. Sorry.”

She tensed. “Hospital?”

“Last night anyway.” He cocked his head, looking lost. “Or maybe this morning.”

“What happened?” Her gaze flew over him, searching for wounds. “How were you hurt?”

He turned, revealing a white bandage on the back of his head. “Knocked out.”

“When?”

“Last night.” Again, he angled his head as if remembering required a great deal of thought. “Or maybe this morning.”

She was fairly certain that a man who’d sustained a head wound in the past twenty-four hours hadn’t been prescribed alcohol. Snatching his half-full tumbler before he could take another sip, she grabbed his hand. “You should be home in bed, not here.”

“Bed?” He grinned. “If you say so …”

Her carnal and practical sides were officially at war. She should reject him; she should comfort him. She wanted him; she hated what he was doing to himself.

She’d seen him have a beer or a glass of whiskey, but she’d never imagined him so out of control, leaving himself so vulnerable. So susceptible to despair.

“Bed to sleep,” she said to him. “You have to rest.”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead.”

“Yes, well, I imagine that glorious moment isn’t too far away.” She tugged him to a shaky stand, then guided him to the bar. “We need a cab,” she said to the bartender.

Clearly, he didn’t like a woman taking control in his manly establishment as he cast a glance at Devin, then back at her. “He seems fine to me.”

“I’ll have—” Devin’s head drooped and only Calla holding him up kept him from collapsing to the floor.

“Sure.” Calla grunted under the weight propping up Devin. “He’s fine. On the other hand, I know a really good lawyer …”

The bartender held her gaze, unblinking, and she had long enough to consider how she’d escape the bar with a half-conscious Devin without help. Considering the barkeep’s hard, dark brown stare, she quickly amended her worry to without permission.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, picking up the phone receiver behind the bar. After a brief conversation, he turned to her. “Cab’ll be here in a minute.”

“Great. Thanks. But it’ll take me at least ten to drag him to the door.” She gave him her best beauty queen smile. “Any chance you could give me a hand?”

With an ill-tempered sigh, he rounded the bar and shouldered half of Devin’s weight. Together, they partly walked, partly dragged him to the door.

Bleary-eyed, Devin’s head swayed from Calla to the bartender. “Babe, you’re really hot, but I’m not doin’ a three-way with another dude.”

Oh, good grief.

“I’ll try to contain my disappointment,” she said dryly.

Once their odd trio stumbled their way through the open door and onto the sidewalk, a cab was waiting at the curb. With the bartender’s help, Calla managed to tuck Devin into the taxi. From her tasseled bag—a dead match to her dress—she dug out twenty bucks and handed her helper the money.

“His bill was fifty,” he growled.

“Of course it was.” Reaching back in her bag, she came up with two more twenties, which she handed him before he ambled back inside the bar.

She dearly hoped the cabbie took credit cards. Plus, she was picking Devin’s pocket the moment she got him horizontal. And that was all she was doing. Well, after groping his firm-looking butt.

Damn. She was back in fantasyland.

Though, with her flowers, cake and taffeta, she looked more suited to a game of Candyland, while Devin looked as if he was in the midst of escaping Call of Duty, the Hellfire and Brimstone version.

“I live on West 22nd Street,” Devin mumbled when she climbed inside the car. He dropped his head into her lap. “Near the museum.”

“I know.” Unable to resist running her fingers through Devin’s silky hair, she gave the cabbie the exact address. “How do you afford to live there on a detective’s salary, by the way?”

“My landlord gives a break to cops.” His hand slid down her dress. “How long is this thing?” Basically answering his own question, she felt him reach the hem and start gliding his fingers up, under the the taffeta this time.

While trying not to focus on the fact that several dreams she’d spent months dwelling on were currently coming true, she realized a big flaw in her plan.

How was she going to get him horizontal to grope him? And, worse, how was she going to get him from the cab to the elevator? Though in a nice neighborhood, Devin’s apartment didn’t lean toward a doorman. She was out of cash to bribe the cabbie with.

She could call her friends, but two of them were on their way to their honeymoon in Switzerland and the other two—if she knew Victoria and her boyfriend, Jared, well enough—were already celebrating on their own by now.

She asked the cabbie to head to her apartment instead of Devin’s. At least there she was pretty sure she could find a neighbor to help.

“Your place?” Devin asked. “How big is the bed?”

“Big enough.”

The tips of Devin’s fingers brushed her panties. “Whoa, Detective,” she said, clamping her thighs together. “We barely know each other. Let’s commit a few misdemeanors before we move on to felonies.”

“Calla,” he breathed. “I know you.”

Closing her eyes, she swallowed. What had she done to deserve this torture? How long had she dreamed of him touching her, wanting her?

“Already did felony assault,” Devin mumbled.

“You— What?”

He ran his hand across her upper thigh. “Glad you dumped that other guy. We can have a good time all on our own.”

And yet she had the feeling he’d pass out long before her “good time” was fully realized. “Felony assault?”

“Some guy. Didn’t hit him. He hit me.” His fingers dug briefly into her skin. “He can’t come to bed with us, either.”

She patted his back. “Fine. You, me, bed. Felony assault?”

“Shoulda been. No score, though.”

“What score?”

“Yankees lost. Lost twenty bucks on those bums.”

“Devin, please.” She grabbed his hand as it again inched toward the juncture of her thighs. “Focus. Who hit you?”

“Somebody hit me?” He lifted his head, which he laid against her breast. “Had to be me, I guess. The Yankees sure aren’t gettin’ enough. They’d need a damn GPS to find the ball. How ‘bout a little TLC?”

As his lips moved against her neck, she fought back the tide of desire.

This was getting her nowhere. Drunk and concussed people didn’t have coherent conversations. She needed to get him home and into bed. She should probably call the hospital and find out what the doctor had actually told him to do to care for his injury, since she couldn’t imagine bellying up to the bar was listed on the discharge papers.

Still, she had one question left that she was positive he could answer. “The sign above the door at the pub, what does it mean?”

“I would prefer whiskey.”

Of course he did.

2

DEVIN ROLLED OVER, and his head throbbed in retaliation.

“I’m supposed to be dead,” he groaned.

His mouth felt as though somebody had filled it full of cotton. His body was stiff; his energy level was depleted by the rolling. And had he mentioned the head-throbbing?

Then he smelled her.

Calla. So full of hope and brightness.

Her warm vanilla scent surrounded him, comforting even though he didn’t deserve solace or sympathy. Maybe he had something to live for, after all.

Flashes of the night before, however, returned in a wave of panic and humiliation. Snippets of conversation about cake, three-ways and hits. Whether those were mob hits or his continual focus on the Yankees’ lousy batting average, he wasn’t sure. Him kissing her, shoving his hand beneath her skirt.

Please, oh, please, tell me I didn’t actually do that.

Course the Almighty wasn’t listening as a wave of nausea turned his stomach. Not that he deserved mercy regardless.

He chanced opening his eyes, surprised when no further pain assaulted him. The room was dark, with only a strip of light shining under the door and a star-shaped night-light plugged into the wall to his right.

Hold everything.

This wasn’t his apartment, and he certainly wasn’t in his bed. Squinting, he could make out the white-and-pink rose-laden comforter covering him. Beneath the sheet—also pink—he was naked.

Oh, man. Oh, no. Please. No.

Guilt shot through every cell in his body. Surely he hadn’t had sex with her. He wouldn’t have taken advantage of her that way. Not even he could have done that.

Fear drove him from the bed. Each movement caused his stomach to roll and his head to pound, but he gritted his teeth and kept going. He was in the midst of figuring out what he could wear when he saw his clothes neatly folded on the dresser.

He wasn’t sure what that level of care said, but knew he shouldn’t think about the implications too long.

And yet, the dread that he’d given into his baser needs with Calla when he’d promised himself not to go near her was nearly overwhelmed by the anxiety that she was, even now, planning their wedding. Both scenarios gave him the motivation to stumble into the bathroom, splash water on his face and hair, rinse with the mouthwash he found beneath the sink, get dressed then crack the bedroom door.

Immediately, he smelled bacon.

Surprisingly, his stomach whimpered with need. If he could get his hands on that bacon, a gallon of coffee and four or ten aspirin, he might make it through the day.

With a confidence he didn’t feel, he strode through the living room to the bar-high counter bordering the kitchen.

Wearing a robe the color of cotton candy, she stood in front of the stove. Her tanned and toned legs peaked from beneath the robe’s hem. Her long blond hair was piled on top of her head in a messy mass that turned him on in a big way.

But then wasn’t everything associated with her arousing?

“Bacon?” he managed to croak.

She smiled at him over her shoulder. “I thought I heard water running. Pretty fast shower.”

“I didn’t take a shower.”

The smile turned to a scowl. “Why not? I put out fresh soap and shampoo. Not my girly stuff, either.”

“I’m probably in your way.”

“You’re not. Don’t you want bacon?” When he nodded, she added, “Breakfast will take a few more minutes. Plenty of time for a shower.”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“It’s Sunday. Wanna take a shower or tell me about last night?”

He headed back to the bedroom. In the shower, he acknowledged the hot, powerful spray from overhead cleared much of his confusion.

One, sex between him and Calla was still imaginary. A realization that was both good and bad.

Two, his head didn’t hurt just because he’d overindulged in whiskey. He’d been whacked on the back of the head. Reaching behind him, he found a bandage and smooth skin around the edges. Hell. Somebody’d shaved a section of his head. He wasn’t vain about stuff like that but still … a bald spot?

Not only did he not have game, his game was on strike.

For the shaving and bandage, he recalled a hospital nurse. For the assault he drew a blank.

He shook his head, which did nothing but increase the incessant pounding.

Bracing his forehead against the tiled shower stall, he fought to push through the clouds clogging his memory, but the deluge of water only made him wonder if he was supposed to get his bandage wet, and, if he did, would he die of an antibiotic-resistant bacterial infection or simply start leaking brain fluid that would swirl down the drain?

And, if so, would that please happen now?

Until one of those glorious moments occurred, he might as well make the woman who promised to feed him happy. He reached for the mini hotel shampoo she’d obviously set out for him, but was distracted by the large bottles belonging to her. Leaning close, he inhaled vanilla and sugar and his head immediately stopped pounding.

Contentment washed over him, even as hunger to be near her ran rampant. She’d tempted him for months, even though he knew they couldn’t be together. She was too bright and pure, and he wasn’t about to drag her into his crappy life and past.

He resisted the urge to cover himself in her scent and washed quickly with the hotel-size green tea products. Once he’d dressed and headed toward the kitchen a second time, he acknowleged she’d been right. The shower had steadied him.

Course a lot of his memory was muddled, and that was going to be a problem. From past experience, he knew she was relentless when she was after something. He sure didn’t think she’d let him get away with a free breakfast and hot shower.

As he walked from the bedroom toward the kitchen, she was dishing scrambled eggs onto a plate already groaning with bacon. His stomach grumbled in response.

“How do you take your coffee?” she asked in a cheerful, if low volume, voice.

His pounding head appreciated the care. Why was she so good to him when he didn’t deserve to be in the same room with her? “Black, thanks.”

He sat on one of the two stools pushed up against the bar bracketing the kitchen on two sides. She handed him a heavy-looking mug, though he imagined her cupboards were full of dainty teacups. A quick scan of the counter proved his guess—a cream scallop-edged cup with a bouquet of pink roses decorating the side sat beside the stove.

As he took the first sip of coffee, their gazes locked. Weak as he was, he quickly looked away. He didn’t need to complicate his already tangled life with his confusing feelings for her.

The silence lingered until she set a filled plate on the bar before him. Maybe he could slink away, after all.

But he’d barely taken his first bite when she slid onto the stool next to him and asked, “So, wanna tell me about last night?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Very.”

She pushed a small glass filled with orange juice toward him. “This will help.”

Shrugging, he drank the juice in a quick swallow.

As soon as he set the empty glass on the bar, she pushed another one in his line of vision. This one held tomato juice, complete with celery stalk artistically leaning against the side.

He curled his lip. “I don’t like—”

“Drink it.”

As he often found in her presence, he did as she ordered, though he would swear he hadn’t made a conscious decision to do so.

Surprisingly, the juice wasn’t bland, watery tomatoes. The drink had a spicy kick, as if she’d made a Bloody Mary without the shot of vodka. Though he had a feeling, based on the determined look on her face, that he could use the added buzz.

“The vitamins in oranges, tomatoes and celery are good for you,” she said.

He also had the feeling she’d told him that before. Not surprising. This wasn’t his first ride around the block with hangovers. “Goody. You know how I like to take care of myself.”

“Eat the celery.” When he started to argue, she added, “Think of the celery as a carrot for the bacon reward.”

He chomped the stalk in two bites, then grabbed two slices of bacon from the plate before she could come up with some other healthy barrier to his fat-laden breakfast.

His obedience bought him silence, as she said nothing while he inhaled the food.

“You’re not eating?” he asked when he paused long enough to notice she wasn’t.

“I had a spinach omelet earlier.”

In his opinion, the only place for something green in eggs was in children’s stories that rhyme. But also knowing she’d go back to the subject of last night, he commented, “You’ve got a nice place.”

“Thanks. Because of all my pageant winnings, I went to college on a full scholarship, so my parents gave me the money they’d been saving for school.”

“Pageant? Like bikini contest?” He could certainly imagine her figure earning piles of cash.

“No, like Miss America. You know, evening gowns, crowns and sashes, questions about world peace.”

She was a beauty queen; he was a master marksman. If ever two people were less compatible, he couldn’t imagine who, when or where. “You have a lot of roses in here.”

“When your name is a flower, you have to go with it.”

“So why not lilies?”

“Too obvious. You’re not going to divert my attention from asking about last night, by the way.”

“I figured it was worth a shot.”

“How about if we start with an easy question? Who hit you over the head?”

He shook his head. “No idea.”

“Okay, not a good start.”

“Everything’s pretty fuzzy.”

“I’ll bet. How ‘bout we start from the beginning? What’s the last thing you remember clearly?”

He struggled to think back. “I picked up my suit from the dry cleaners.” His only suit, come to think of it.

“You were coming to the wedding,” Calla said, gazing at him with wonder.

“I was invited.”

“So you were. After dry cleaning?”

“Hung around my apartment awhile, fixed my neighbor’s ceiling fan, then went to the bar down the street to watch football.”

When he stopped, she asked, “Did you get into an argument with somebody at the bar?”

“No, I—” What? He recalled watching the Syracuse-Rutgers game of all things, but had no idea what happened afterward.

“Try to picture yourself.”

When he did, he was rewarded with a sharp jab of pain to the back of his skull. Wincing, he shook his head.

She slid off her stool. “Why don’t you take one of your pain pills? You’ve eaten now, so you can—”

“What pain pills?”

“The ones the E.R. doctor prescribed, but you didn’t pick up, instead choosing to drown yourself in whiskey.” She pursed her lips in censure. “Which was not prescribed, by the way.”

He grabbed her wrist as she started off. “No, thanks. They’ll make my thoughts even more jumbled.” He realized he was touching her when heat shot up his arm. He let go immediately and picked up his coffee mug. “Thanks for getting them, though. I’ll pay you back.”

She returned to her seat, and he got a mouthwatering glimpse of her upper thigh. “You’re racking up quite a tab.”

Tab. He pausing before drinking the coffee. “I paid my tab at the bar and left. I headed down the street … toward my apartment, but I saw … something.”

“Somebody you knew?”

Automatically, he shook his head. He didn’t think he’d talked to anybody. Since he wasn’t much on conversation, he was fairly certain he’d remember having one. Hell, he could have tripped over a damn dog and banged his head on the sidewalk for all he knew.

But even a bungling move like that wouldn’t have sent him to drown his sorrows at O’Leary’s.

“Somebody hit you,” she said, breaking into his thoughts.

Startled, he stared at her. “How do you—”

“You told me last night. You weren’t sure at first whether you’d gotten hit or the Yankees lost ‘cause they couldn’t, but since a picture of the Yankees manager kicking home plate is on the front page of the sports section, and you’ve got a bandage and a headache, I’m pretty sure you were the one involved in hitting.”

Sometimes, for no reason at all, he found himself tempted to smile at her. “You’d make quite a detective.”

“No, thanks, the job perils are a little steep for me. Who’d hit a cop?”

He shrugged. He had some basic assault cases pending on his desk, but nothing that would warrant clobbering a cop. And it’d been years since he’d made the mistake of sleeping with a married woman.

Job. She’d jarred his memory again. He’d been doing his job after the bar. He had a vague picture of a short, dark-haired guy wearing a ball cap and overcoat running down an alley. He told as much to Calla.

“Why was he running?” she asked.

“He was a thief?” he asked rather than said, though the reason sounded right.

“How did you know he was a thief?”

“He was running away.” But he hadn’t worn his uniform since the swearing-in ceremony two years ago when he’d made detective. How had the guy made him for a cop? Or had he? “He had a bag, a red lady’s handbag,” he said finally as a flash of the scene came back to him. “I was pissed cause I had to chase him. I knew I’d be late for the wedding if I had to arrest him.”

He’d known Calla would be furious. Plus, he’d wanted to see her in her bridesmaid’s dress.

“Did you catch him?”

“No. Everything goes black then.”

“That’s when you got hit.”

“I guess.”

“We can be fairly certain. The ambulance picked up you and another man from an alley.” When he looked questioningly at her, she added, “After you passed out last night, I made a few phone calls.”

He recalled a ride in an ambulance, EMTs snapping orders, the scream of sirens, flashing lights. His memory also provided a vision of his purse snatcher’s battered face. Why was that so vivid and yet he only got a fuzzy image of Calla in her bridesmaid’s dress?

Life isn’t fair, Antonio. You ought to know that by now.

“I called the ambulance,” he said slowly, sliding off his stool to pace the living room floor. The pieces were falling into place, and the picture they formed wasn’t pretty. “When I woke up, my suspect was unconscious next to me and beat all to hell. We were alone.”

Calla angled her head. “So somebody hit you, then ran him down, attacked him, dragged him next to you and left you both there bleeding?”

The fact that she hadn’t immediately wondered if he’d beaten the suspect was a loyalty he had no idea how he could have earned. Along with anger and worry, something sweet and pure shot through him.

Something he had no business enjoying.

“Pretty implausible, right?” he commented.

“It actually seems like the only explanation. Conversely, it also explains—” She paused, her gaze jumping to his.

“Why I’ve been suspended?”

She bit her lip. “Remembered that, have you?”

“The whole rosy scene is fairly clear now. How do you know? Another one of your phone calls?”

“I went to see Lieutenant Meyer when you didn’t show up at the wedding. That’s how I found you at the bar.” She crossed her arms over her chest, looking like an outraged fairy. “He honestly thinks you beat up a suspect then knocked yourself out?”

“I’m not sure what he thinks, but since that’s the story my purse snatcher told the cops, I’ve been suspended pending investigation of his assault.”

Calla’s jaw dropped. “The thief told them you beat him up?”

“Yep.”

“But you were knocked out, too. Who’s investigating your assault?”

He sneered. “I imagine that’s pretty low on the list of priority cases.”

3

CALLA SLAMMED THE skillet in the sink and began to scrub, though she knew it was ridiculous to dream that Devin’s mess could be so easily cleaned up. “This is outrageous. Meyer’s taking the word of some two-bit, scummy purse snatcher over one of his own detectives?”

“Probably not,” Devin said, still pacing, even though he had to be dizzy by now. “But the incident has to be investigated. You gotta admit the whole thing is strange. The suspect—who Meyer referred to as a witness, by the way—says I started chasing him for no reason, then whaled on him once I caught him in the alley. And nobody found a purse on him. He had his own wallet in his back pocket, and that was it.”

“Obviously whoever hit both of you took it.”

“That much has occurred to me in the last few minutes. But unless this mysterious attacker shows up and confesses, the lieutenant has an investigation to run. I’m a suspect and out of the department until he does.”

“Heaven forbid he should stand by you.”

“He has to stay impartial. Dirty cops are serious business. I’m sure Internal Affairs will be knocking on my door very soon.”

Calla plopped the rest of the plates in the dishwasher and slammed the door. “Maybe the thief had a partner, and he didn’t want to split the booty, so he clobbered his buddy and took off.”

“The booty?”

She let out a huff as she marched toward him, wondering if it was possible his head injury had made him even more difficult than normal. “Loot, plunder, goods, ill-gotten gains. Pick your term. I’ve got a thesaurus on the bookshelf that’ll help you find dozens more if you like.”

“Seems like a lot of effort for one purse.”

Calla flopped on the sofa. “You’re sure it wasn’t there when you woke up?”

“I don’t think so, but I was pretty groggy.”

“And yet you managed to call for help.”

“An obvious flaw in the logic of this guy’s story. I’m the one who called the ambulance. Why would I do that if I’d gone to all the trouble to kick the crap out of him?”

“None of this makes sense. We need to find you a lawyer.” She picked up her phone from the coffee table in front of her. “I’ll call Victoria. Her dad’s bound to know somebody.”

“We?” Devin stopped pacing and shook his head, which he obviously regretted, because he winced, pressing his fingertips to his temples. “I appreciate you helping me out last night, but I’ll handle things from here.”

“Unlike the NYPD, I am standing by you. You need help.”

“I can take care of myself.” He must have realized she’d debunked that statement pretty soundly over the past twelve hours, since he added, “Usually. I don’t need your gang.”

She scowled. “We’re not a gang.”

“So you keep saying. Look, I should go.”

As he headed toward the hallway, she stepped in front of him. “Don’t. Let me help you. It’s the least my friends and I can do after all the times you’ve rescued us.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t need rescuing.”

The man was pricklier than a desert cactus. “Stay.”

“No.”

“I’d threaten to hold your pain meds hostage, but you’d probably dip into the whiskey bottle again.”

“I think I’ll lay off the whiskey for a while.”

“Wise idea. You can’t go home, somebody tried to kill you.”

“A bump on the head isn’t a near-death experience.”

“But whoever hit you and the guy you chased is out there. What if he comes looking for you?”

Devin laid his hand on his side, where he usually carried his pistol. By the expression on his face, she could tell he wasn’t happy by its absence.

“Us regular folks can’t carry a gun in the city,” she reminded him.

“They took my badge, too.”

There was a world of frustration in those five simple words. Though he wasn’t big on sharing, she knew he defined himself by his job. The possibility of losing it was no doubt terrifying.

Counting on rejection, but past caring, she grasped his hand. “I’m sorry. I’ll help you get it back.”

He looked, not at her, but their joined hands. “I appreciate the offer, but I have to handle this alone.”

“Why?”

His gaze moved to hers. “It’s my problem.”

“There’s no weakness in accepting help from a friend,” she said gently, sensing he was on the verge of bolting.

“And we’re friends.”

“Aren’t we?”

His bright green eyes stood out starkly from his tanned skin. People of Irish and Italian decent really should mate more often if this was the result. Her friends thought he was gorgeous, but dark and rough. She saw him as wounded and lonely. He spoke to her on an elemental level, and deeper feelings were undeniably lurking.

Feelings he seemed determined to ignore or deny.

“I thought so,” she said finally to his question about friendship.

“Are we more than friends?”

Her heart gave a swift kick to her ribs. “Pardon me?”

“We didn’t …” He trailed off and clearly struggled to continue. She wondered if he was even aware he was stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. “I mean, I didn’t … do anything with you last night, did I?”

There’d been some clumsy passes, of course, but they, unfortunately, meant nothing. Was that what he was talking about? In his case, thing could mean something as monumental as having a conversation for more than two minutes. “Do what kind of thing?”

“I woke up naked.”

Her face turned pink. “I thought you’d be more comfortable out of your clothes.” He did more for a black T-shirt and jeans than anybody she knew, but the view beneath the cotton was exponentially better. Not that she’d looked. For long. She cleared her throat. “I was expecting some kind of undergarment, actually. Do you always …?”

“No. I need to do laundry.”

“Ah. And the scar on your hip?”

“I got stabbed.”

He gave the explanation with the same casual tone that most people used for “I think I’ll have fries with my burger,” intriguing and mystifying her more than ever.

And he was still caressing her hand. She inched toward him. Yes, he was injured, confused, weak and needy—even if he didn’t want to admit he was. It would be wrong, very wrong, to take advantage of him in his current state.

And yet her libido was also needy and it was whispering seductively about the possibility of this being her one and only opportunity with him. She’d been crushing on him for six months. Other than the head wound plus alcohol fiasco of the night before, he seemed determined not to make the first move. Any move, actually.

Yet, somewhere, somewhere way deep down, she sensed he needed her with the same intensity.

Texans were nothing if not determined and resilient. She certainly knew how to take control. And she had a much better weapon than a firearm.

Before her conscience could talk sense into her, or he could think quickly enough to shove her away, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his.

Desperate as the move was, it was worth the reward.

He crushed her against him, bracing his hand at the back of her head to hold her in place as he drove his tongue past her lips. Her senses ignited, and he fanned the flames, consuming her like a man starved for air.

Finally was all she could think. Finally he’d let go of the tight rein he held on his control.

She embraced his heat, his aggression and need. Everything about him enticed her to learn more, to be drawn further into the inferno. Why was he so determined to be alone? What had made him so cynical and stony? Why did she want so badly to find out if anything soft lingered beneath?

As the thought occurred, his touch turned gentle. His hand, braced at the small of her back, slid around her waist, glided down her hip. If he tugged the ties of her robe, she’d be standing before him in nothing but panties and a camisole, but he seemed more interested in her mouth.

Dreams she’d had alone in her bed, in the dead of night rushed back. How often had she woken in a sweat, so sure he’d been with her between the sheets, positive she smelled his cologne on her skin, only to find herself alone and aching instead?

Fantasies never lived up to their impossible promises, yet she continued to hope and wonder. Now she finally had him.

I dream of you day and night.

Had he felt the same? Had he longed for her, too? Would this disastrous frame-up bring them together in a way their past connections hadn’t been able to?

He pushed her away roughly and suddenly, and she glimpsed the fire in his eyes seconds before he spun with a muttered “sorry” before he stalked down the hall, slamming the door behind him.

Breathing hard, Calla stood rigid where he’d left her. Most of her questions were still frustratingly unanswered. She knew he wanted her, but he refused to give into that need. She intended to find out why.

Because friendship was far from the only thing she wanted.

“OKAY, GIRLS,” CALLA said to her best buds via her laptop’s video link. “I’ve got a serious problem here.”

“Let me guess,” Victoria began, then sipped from a coffee mug while the window at her back exhibited a collection of Manhattan high-rises. “Antonio’s in a bad mood.”

Shelby, the Swiss Alps at her back, frowned, her normally golden-hazel eyes dark with concern. “Is he okay, Calla? Why didn’t he come to the wedding?”

“It’s a big, damn mess.”

Calla told her friends the abbreviated version of assault, frame-up and suspension. “We’ve got to help him.”

“Certainly we will,” Shelby said immediately.

“Does he want us to help him?” Victoria asked. “Antonio doesn’t seem like the needy type.”

“He needs us,” Calla insisted, though she knew Victoria was right. “He’s concussed and suspended.”

“And angry, I’ll bet,” Victoria added.

Calla bit her lip. “Actually, he raced out of here, slamming the door behind him, about five minutes ago.” She paused, taking care not to look her friends’ directly in the eye. “Course that might have been because I kissed him.”

“Well, that would—” Shelby leaned forward. “You kissed him?”

“It’s about damn time” was Victoria’s dry comment.

“How did it happen?” Shelby asked.

“He was feeling guilty because he couldn’t remember if we’d slept together or not, and he was holding my hand, which, in retrospect, I don’t think he realized he was doing, and all these feelings welled up inside me—”

Victoria held up her hand. “Hold it. He couldn’t remember if you’d had sex?”

“He was pretty out of it last night,” Calla said.

“Apparently,” Victoria remarked.

“So, anyway,” Calla went on, “I laid one on him, and he seemed really into it, then he suddenly darted out the door.”

Victoria shook her head. “I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again—that guy has issues.”

“You’re not being helpful, V,” Shelby said before she directed her gaze to Calla. “He’s not thinking straight. That’s why he pushed you away. If you want to help him, you’ll have to be persistent. Think of him as an exclusive interview you absolutely have to get.”

Victoria gestured with her mug. “Gotta agree with you there.”

Calla made an effort not to pout, but it was tough. “He’s been doing a pretty good job of avoiding me the last six months.”

“But he does want you,” Shelby said, clearly frustrated. “Anybody can see it. Your timing was just wrong. The first move has got to be perfect.”

“He made plenty of moves last night,” Calla said. “But since he was toasted, I don’t think those count.”

“Sure they do,” Shelby insisted. “His inhibitions were down, so he went with his unvarnished instincts. Be persistent. And when I get home, we’ll triple-team him.” She paused. “No way will this trumped-up assault charge last.”

Calla knew she’d made the right move by calling her friends, even if she had interrupted Shelby’s honeymoon. “I could use the backup. In the meantime, he’s going to need a good attorney. V, can you call your dad for a recommendation?”

Victoria nodded. “I’ll ask, and I’m sure he knows somebody, but he’ll be expensive.”

Calla winced. “I don’t think Devin will have the budget for a highflier.”

“What about that guy you took to V’s Christmas party last year?” Shelby asked.

Victoria scowled. “The one who kept drooling on her rhinestone shoes?”

“That’s him,” Shelby said, undeterred. “Didn’t he leave the public defender’s office to open his own practice?”

“Howard?” Calla asked. “I don’t know. He asked me to marry him on our second date. It took a long time to let him down gently.”

“Speaking of proposals …” Shelby grinned. “How are things with you and Jared, Victoria?”

“Fine,” Victoria said. “No proposals. We agreed.”

Over Labor Day weekend, Victoria had fallen in love with a Montana adventurer. Though wild about her new man, she was also wildly independent and seemed to be struggling with the concept of coupledom.

Victoria shrugged, though her eyes were bright with lust. “In between him dragging me off to Turks and Caicos, we’re—”

“He drags you off to Turks and Caicos?” Shelby interrupted in disbelief.

“Not exactly.” Victoria’s face actually turned pink. “But we go. In between we’re trying to merge our apartments in the city. No easy task, as it turns out. He wants to buy the place next door, so we can knock out a wall, and he can build a man-cave where he can watch football and drink beer. But I remind him that I should have a chick-den where I can do hair and invite over gay guys to give me grooming tips.”

“Who wins?” Calla asked.

“Nobody,” Victoria said. “We argue, have sex then forget what we were arguing about.”

“Sounds like a good thing,” Calla muttered. “Shelby, does Trevor have a man-cave?”

“He has an office. With a minifridge stocked full of sparking water and champagne. I don’t think cavemen ever envisioned the English aristocracy. His decorator’s excellent, though. Course she makes in a month what I do in a year, but our place is beautiful, and she had a commercial-grade Sub-Zero fridge installed in the kitchen, so she’s good in my book.”

“Is her brother, sister, mother, father, cousin or next-door neighbor a lawyer?” Calla asked, wondering how they’d wandered into this tangent.

“Sorry.” Shelby cleared her throat. “Back to Detective Antonio … does this suspension have anything to do with his trouble years ago?”

“I don’t know,” Calla admitted.

“You’re going to have to ask him about it,” Victoria reminded her.

Calla waved her hand. “Yeah, yeah. I will.” And wouldn’t that be fun? But if she was going to help, she had to have all the facts, no matter how painful.

“It seems to me we need to find out how strong the case is against him,” Shelby said, echoing Calla’s concern.

“And who’s this witness accusing him of assault?” Victoria asked. “Antonio might be moody, but he wouldn’t beat up some random stranger. Why would he need to? He probably intimidates most criminals with a single cold stare.”

“The department isn’t saying diddly,” Calla said, knowing they had to find a way around that. Legal advice was imperative. Course he hadn’t actually been charged with anything … yet. If she hadn’t seen the lost and furious expression on Devin’s face, she’d wonder if she was overreacting. “Devin seems to think his boss believes in him, but he has to follow procedure. IAB’s going to get involved.” She paused to gather her emotions before she added, “They took his badge. I mean physically forced him to hand it over. Talk about humiliating.”

Shelby’s eyes darkened. “Oh, Calla.”

Calla swallowed the lump in her throat. “It’s not just what he does, it’s who he is.”

“He’s still a cop,” Victoria pointed out, pragmatic as always. “He has friends, right? You know, really stoic and tolerant ones. We obviously need somebody on the inside.”

The contrast of Victoria’s sarcasm brought back Calla’s optimism. They had much more on their side than entrapment and lies. “He has friends.” Though that was also wrapped up in hope, since she’d never met any of them. “I’ll get him working on that angle right away. As soon as I find him,” she muttered.

Victoria sighed in disgust. “Don’t find him. He’ll come to you.”

Calla ground her teeth. “Sure he will.”

“Bet,” Victoria said, her eyes gleaming. “I got twenty on the Calla-dazzled detective.”

“Calla-dazzled?” Shelby asked. “Is that a word?”

“It is now,” Victoria asserted.

“Darling, we have dinner reservations,” Calla heard Trevor, Shelby’s new husband, say in his elegant English accent.

“I’m coming,” Shelby called. “Say hi to Calla and Victoria.”

Trevor’s handsome face appeared in the video frame. “Good evening, ladies.”

Calla had to suppress a sigh at his wavy black hair and vivid dark blue eyes. She really was desperate if she was lusting after her best friend’s husband.

When he moved out of view, Calla got a glimpse of him walking away, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit. With this whole assault and suspension mess, she’d also missed out on seeing Devin in a suit at the wedding.

Infuriated again, Calla vowed to personally see that lying, purse-snatching jerk paid for that crime alone.

“How’s the snow?” Calla whispered to Shelby as Trevor left the room.

“How’s the sex?” Victoria asked at the same time.

“Great and great,” Shelby returned. “And I need to get back to both. Trevor’s patient as a saint, of course, but an emergency video chat with my girlfriends is enough to drive any groom to frustration.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Calla said. “Both of you.”

“Tell Devin I’ll make him some of my special cookies when I get back,” Shelby said. “My next catering gig isn’t for a while.”

“And if he decides to blow off the NYPD and these bogus charges,” Victoria added, “I’m sure Jared would be glad to take him off to Borneo or somewhere equally unextraditable.”

Calla’s throat tightened. “You guys are the best. Coffee’s on me next week.”

Victoria’s lips winged up. “Wedding pictures and a plan to clear a friend on an assault charge. Only the three of us could have a coffee date like that.”

After they signed off, Calla slumped on the sofa. Her and her buddies’ latest adventures had included sending a fraudulent investor to prison and solving the theft of a cursed multimillion-dollar diamond-and-sapphire necklace.

How hard could it be to convince the NYPD of the innocence of their determined, clever, though admittedly irascible, friend? Possibly without said friend’s help?

She closed her laptop and leaned her head back. Who was she kidding? For months she’d lived in a fantasy world concerning Devin. The text, the craziness of last night and the impulsive kiss were all she had as any kind of evidence that he might want her, too.

And all of those events could be attributed to some sort of altered state.

He always comes to the rescue when you call him.

Super. If only she were the one suspended and accused of assault.

Maybe he was right. Maybe she should back out and let him deal with his problems on his own.

He’d never desert you.

Frustrated with the whole mess, and especially her interfering conscience, she rose. She needed a strong cup of tea and a big piece of leftover wedding cake.

On the way to the kitchen, she glanced at the plastic pharmacy bottle sitting on the counter. His pain meds.

Victoria was right. He’d be back.

Unless he found a liquor store open on Sundays.

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