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.
