Sweet Spot. Сьюзен Мэллери

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To my editor, Tara Parsons.

      Because we both love this book! Because working with

      you is a delight. Because you make my books so much better.

      A thousand thanks.

      CHAPTER ONE

      NICOLE KEYES had always believed that when life gives you lemons, stick them in a bowl on the counter, then go get a Danish and a coffee to get you through to better times. Which explained why the time cards were sticky and she had a very effective caffeine buzz going on.

      She eyed the display case, where a cherry-cheese Danish softly whispered her name over and over again, then glanced down at the brace on her knee and cane by her side. She was still healing from her recent surgery, which meant not a whole lot of physical activity. If she didn’t want to risk making her jeans even tighter, she was going to have pass on that second Danish.

      “Better to be tempted by a pastry than a man,” she reminded herself. Baked goods could make a woman fat, but a man could rip out her heart and leave her broken and bleeding. While the cure for the former—diet and exercise—wasn’t pleasant, it was something she could handle. But a cure for the latter was iffy at best. Distance, distractions, great sex. At present, she didn’t have any of those in her life. The front door to the bakery opened, causing the bell above it to tinkle. Nicole barely glanced up as a high school kid walked to the case and asked for five dozen doughnuts. She licked her fingers, wiped them on a paper napkin, then began initialing the time cards so they could be dropped off at her accountant’s that afternoon.

      Maggie, working behind the display case, put three big boxes on the counter, then started to ring up the order. Just then, the phone rang. Maggie turned to get it.

      Nicole couldn’t say what it was that made her look up at that moment. A sixth sense? Luck? The way the teenager’s fidgeting caught her attention?

      She saw the kid stick a cell phone back into his shorts’ front pocket, grab the boxes of doughnuts and head for the door. Without paying.

      Nicole accepted that she was, by nature, a crabby person. She rarely saw the bright side of any situation and she was known to overreact from time to time. But nothing, absolutely nothing, pissed her off more than someone playing her for a fool. She’d had a lot of that in her life lately, and there was no way this kid was going to add himself to the list.

      Without really planning her actions, she stuck out her cane, tripped him, then shoved the cane in the center of his back.

      “I don’t think so,” she told him. “Maggie, call the cops.”

      She half expected the kid to jump up and run away. She couldn’t have stopped him, but he didn’t move. Ten minutes later the door opened again, but instead of one of Seattle’s finest walking in, she looked up and saw someone who could easily pass for an underwear model/action hero.

      The guy was tall, tanned and serious about working out. She could tell about the working-out bit because he wore red shorts and a gray T-shirt from Pacific High School ripped off just above his waistband. Muscles she hadn’t even known existed on the human body twisted and bunched as he moved.

      Reflective sunglasses covered his eyes. He looked down at the kid still held in place with her cane, the doughnuts scattered across the floor, then whipped off the glasses and smiled at her.

      She’d seen that smile before.

      Oh, not from him specifically. It was the one Pierce Brosnan, playing James Bond, used to get information from slightly-out-of-breath secretaries. It was the one her ex-husband had used, more than once, to get out of trouble. Nicole couldn’t be more immune if she’d invented the vaccine herself.

      “Hi,” the guy said. “I’m Eric Hawkins. You can call me Hawk.”

      “How delightful for me. I’m Nicole Keyes. You can call me Ms. Keyes. Are you with the police?” She looked him over, trying not to be impressed by so much male perfection in such a tiny space. “Is your uniform at the dry cleaner’s?”

      His smile widened. “I’m the football coach at Pacific High School. One of my buddies at the station took the call and phoned me.”

      People thought of Seattle as a big city, but it was made up of a lot of small neighborhoods. Mostly Nicole liked that about her hometown. Just not today.

      Disgusted, Nicole looked at the woman behind the counter. “Maggie, would you call the police again?”

      “Maggie, hold that thought,” Hawk said. He nudged Nicole’s cane aside so the kid could scramble to his feet. “Raoul, are you okay?”

      Nicole rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. What could possibly have happened to him?”

      “He’s my star quarterback. I’m not taking any chances. Raoul?”

      The kid shuffled and ducked his head. “I’m good, Coach.”

      Hawk took the kid aside and had a whispered conversation with him. Nicole watched warily.

      Washington State might not be Texas, but high school football was still a big deal here. Being the winning quarterback of a high school team was nearly as good as being Paris Hilton. Hawk probably expected her to succumb to his questionable charm and let the kid off with nothing more than a shrug over the misunderstanding. Which was so not happening.

      “Look,” she said, her voice as stern as she could make it. “He stole five dozen doughnuts. In your world, that might be perfectly fine, but it’s not okay to me. I’m calling the police.”

      “It’s not his fault,” Hawk told her. “It’s mine.”

      She was sorry she’d rolled her eyes before—it meant she couldn’t do it now. “Because you told him to steal?”

      “Raoul, wait for me in my truck,” Hawk said.

      “Raoul, don’t even think about moving,” Nicole snapped.

      She watched as Hawk’s good humor faded. He pulled up a chair next to hers, sat down and leaned toward her.

      He was one of those guys who took up too much space, she thought, fighting the need to scoot back. Still, she held her ground, even though he was so close, she could see the various shades of brown, green and gold that made up his irises.

      “You don’t