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
