Sinfully Sweet. Carrie Alexander
“I’m not one of our old high school’s shining success stories.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should reconsider your career path, huh?”
He wasn’t going to follow that line of discussion. “Make the call, Mackenzie. Then we can get some sleep.”
She stood and moved silently through the living room on unshod feet, picking up a cordless phone from the desk beneath the window. Despite her disheveled state, she was even prettier than he’d remembered. In school, she’d been plump and quiet, something of a wallflower who’d been overshadowed by her active, outgoing sister. The past ten years had been good to her. The baby-fat face had gained more definition, and the womanly figure now suited her. Suited him, too. The feel of her breasts pushing against his chest had been quite the distraction.
Thoughtfully, she touched the phone to her chin as she walked back across the room. “Let me get this straight. You memorized my address from the sheet sent out with the invitation to the reunion. Then you just happened to be on this particular street, needing a hideout…at the very moment that I was coming home from our tenth high-school reunion. And then, instead of saying hello and introducing yourself properly, you attacked me and pushed me inside because you were in a—” she made quotation marks in the air “—hurry.” She plopped down beside him on the couch. “Have I got it right?”
“More or less.”
She shook her head as she dialed. “Just so you don’t think I’m swallowing that baloney.”
He grabbed the phone and hit the hang-up button. “Don’t use 9-1-1. They can trace your call.” He punched in a number. “Here, I dialed the precinct direct. But be brief and hang up fast.”
She hesitated before taking a breath and speaking in the querulous high-pitched voice of an old lady. “I want to report suspicious activity. West 17th in Chelsea, between Sixth and Seventh. Two men. They’re busting into apartment buildings.” She cut the connection. “How was that?”
Devlin smiled, thinking of Sloss and Bonny scrambling for cover when the N.Y.P.D. arrived. The interruption wasn’t more than a wrench in their plans, but even a minor victory was satisfying after the disastrous evening he’d had. Three month’s work was on the verge of collapsing. “You did good.”
Her serious expression lightened. “Shew. Does this make me a gun moll?”
“Only for the night.”
Her cheeks curved with a smile. “This has been one hell of a night.”
“Fun reunion?”
“It wasn’t all that I’d hoped.”
“Why not? Looks like you’ve done well for yourself.”
She adjusted the gap in her blouse, then squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, giving him another glimpse of her new, confident attitude. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”
“Still working for the candy company?”
She blinked. “How do you know where I worked? We haven’t seen each other since high school.”
“I keep my ear to the ground. I hear things.” He wasn’t about to tell her that he’d purposely kept track of her when it hadn’t meant anything special. He’d been curious, that’s all. “You went to college and started at Regal right after graduation. I bet you’re a vice president by now.”
“Actually, I’ve moved on. Just recently. I opened my own penny-candy emporium in the Village a couple of weeks ago. It’s called Sweet Something. Several of the city newspapers ran items about the grand opening party. Mostly because my publicist got a few celebrities to come, but even so…”
He grinned, delighted with the wholesome rightness of her fate. By damn, the world hadn’t gone all wrong, not if Mackenzie Bliss owned a candy store. “I remember,” he said. “You always carried butterscotch candies in your backpack. And—” He searched his memory.
“Sugar Babies,” she said. “I had a minor fling with Zowies in eighth grade.”
“Still have all your teeth?” he teased.
She displayed them. “A couple of cavities. One root canal.”
On impulse, he touched the nick at the corner of her mouth. “Sorry about that.”
She pulled away, her lashes lowering as she slid a thumb over her lip. The gesture seemed too girlish for a twenty-eight-year-old woman.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked abruptly.
“I did, but, um, not anymore.” She showed her teeth again, going for a feral female look that didn’t suit her. Not even the new her. “I dumped him.”
“Yeah?”
She frowned. “You don’t believe me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
A heightened blush betrayed her. “Okay. It was more like a mutual breakup. The relationship died from natural causes, although I was the one who finally pointed it out. And it took me only two years to notice.” Her face changed. “This is dumb. You’re on the run and I’m talking about penny candy and my ex-boyfriend. Give me your jacket. It’s so wet it’s soaking through the couch.”
“This is the only chance we’ll have to catch up,” he said to distract her. It was better if he kept the jacket.
“Our one and only chance,” she said with an edge. “Right. So, you have my story. My parents got remarried, by the way. Almost three months ago. And my sister—remember her?—has moved to Manhattan. She’s working in a Tribeca bistro.”
“Sabrina Bliss,” he said, shaking his head. She was hot sun to Mackenzie’s cool shade. “I thought she’d be surfing in Hawaii or partying on a yacht in the Riviera.”
“Check back in another ten years. She might be.”
“Got a husband?”
“Not Sabrina. At least, not yet.”
“How come you’re not married?” he asked.
Mackenzie shrugged. “No one’s asked me.”
“Not even this guy you just dumped?”
“Well…”
“You turned him down? Why?”
Her gaze darted at his face, but she didn’t answer, only shook her head. She put on a smile, asking softly, “What about you?”
He knew he shouldn’t toy with her, but he couldn’t help it. She’d gotten to him. Not only via his overt reactions to her magnificent breasts and sweet mouth, but in some mysterious, subliminal way, just as she used to in high school. “What about me?” he asked, his voice grating as he turned her innocent question around. “Would you turn me down?”
She caught her breath, taking him too seriously. He had to remember that she was prone to doing that. “I guess my answer depends on your question.”
His laugh was harsh in his throat. “I’m not asking you to marry me, that’s for sure.”
“You’re already married?” she guessed, flicking her lashes at him again.
“Are you kidding?”
“Why not? I’ve read about those jailhouse marriages.” She reached over to unzip his jacket.
“I haven’t spent my entire adult life in prison,” he said out of a senseless need to amend her impression of him. She was supposed to think he was a lowlife criminal. And he wasn’t supposed to care.
She looked disappointed in him. “How are your parents?”
“Still living in Scarsdale.” His father, Ed Brandt, was an uncomplicated medical salesman who stayed