conversation the others had been having. “Just talking to myself,” she admitted. “Making some plans.”
Plans. Yes, she definitely had to make plans. She had time—until the end of the month, at least. Her sister and two closest friends would be right here by her side for every minute of it, riding things out until the very end. They’d be like the string quartet on the Titanic, playing their instruments as the ship sank beneath their feet.
She’d use these last weeks to figure out how to become the new Cat Sheehan. Heck, maybe she’d even start going by Catherine. It was something, anyway, along with those other big changes, which she went over again in her mind.
Education. Check. Home. Check. Attitude. Check.
No dangerous men. Hmm…
But hey, stranger things had happened. All it would take was willpower. Well, that and the knowledge that no hot-enough-to-melt-a-polar-icecap man with trouble in his eyes and wickedness in his smile had wandered into her world in quite some time.
And one sure as hell wasn’t likely to now.
1
SIN HAD JUST WALKED INTO her bar and he was wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt.
Cat Sheehan paused midsentence, forgetting the conversation she’d been having with one of her customers. Forgetting everything. Because, Holy Mother Mary, a man who’d instantly set her heart pounding and her pulse racing was standing a few yards away, completely oblivious to her shocked stare.
He was tall. Very tall. And he had the kind of presence that immediately drew the attention of every person in the place—at least, every female person. Their gazes drifted over because of his size. They stayed because of his looks.
A strip of leather kept the man’s jet-black hair tied at the back of his neck in a short ponytail. A simple thing, that piece of leather, and she’d certainly seen men with longish hair and ponytails. But on him, well, the look was…rakish. That was the only word she could think of.
Cat liked rakes. Not that she’d ever met one for real, but she liked the ones she’d read about in her pirate romance novels.
A pirate. It fit. From the ponytail to the flash of silver glistening on the lobe of one ear to the aura of danger oozing from his body, this man had the pirate thing going in spades.
His classically handsome face was lean, a faint shadow of stubble adding a layer of ruggedness to his strong jaw. His lips briefly widened into a smile as he greeted someone. For a moment, Cat felt very sure the ground had trembled a bit under the power of his smile. Not to mention the mouth, which looked as if it had been created for the sole purpose of kissing.
His body was a living testament to the beauty of nature—broad at the shoulders, slim at the hips, with long legs covered in tight, faded jeans. His thick arms flexed, muscles bulging under the weight of the sizable guitar case he was carrying, though he hardly seemed to notice. Lifting it higher, he stepped deftly around tables and chairs, skirting the outstretched legs of the few patrons in the place.
He moved gracefully. Catlike.
“Oh, yeah,” she murmured. Cat definitely liked.
She never took her eyes off him as he approached. Then it sunk in. He was approaching her, Cat Sheehan, the woman standing here with her mouth only slightly less wide-open than her eyes.
Blinking, she gave her head a hard shake, then grabbed the nearest cloth she could reach and busied herself by wiping up some spilled beer.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
Cat barely registered the shrill words from somewhere nearby, because suddenly he was there. A thick, tanned forearm dropped to the surface of the bar, and she couldn’t help staring at his fingers. Long fingers. Artistic-looking. Perfect for a guitar player. Not to mention a lover.
“Wow,” the same female voice said, sounding subdued.
Swallowing hard, Cat slowly shifted her gaze, surveying his limb from fingertip to elbow, then the ninety-degree turn up the thick planes of his arm, the tight hem of the black cotton T-shirt. The broad shoulder. The hollow of his throat. The cords of his neck. Wow, indeed.
Then, oh, God, the face.
If Helen’s face had launched a thousand ships to the sea, surely this man’s could inspire ten thousand pairs of panties to drop to the floor.
Her legs wobbled, her knees knocking together loud enough to be heard over the sound of the jackhammer outside. But probably not loud enough to be heard over the pounding of her heart. Ordering herself to calm down, she slowed her breaths, mentally grabbing for control as she assessed the situation.
She was facing the most incredible man she’d ever seen—the kind of guy women fantasized about meeting for real, instead of on the pages of books or on giant screens in darkened movie theaters. One-hundred-percent pure sin.
Separating them were only the broad mahogany bar and Cat’s own resolution to change her ways and steer clear of sexy, dangerous men.
She should have known she didn’t have a snowball’s chance of keeping that resolution, though, honestly, she’d figured she could last a week. But no. It’d been only three days since they’d received the letter from the historical society and she’d made the stupid promise to herself. Of all the changes in her world since Tuesday—including the shockingly abrupt departure of Laine and Tess for far-flung adventures—she’d thought the ones she’d resolved to make in herself would be the easiest to deal with.
Uh, not.
A slow grin tilted the corners of the stranger’s lips up and he leaned closer. As he did so, his dark, intense eyes caught and reflected a reddish glimmer from one of the stained-glass light fixtures overhead.
Devilish. Dangerous. Off-limits.
Or so she tried to tell herself. But she suspected it was no use. Unless the guy had a hideous voice, he was altogether perfect. And since conversation wasn’t even on the top ten list of the things she’d been picturing doing with this man since the second she’d set eyes on him, she suspected it wouldn’t matter if he sounded like Roger Rabbit on speed.
“I think that’s her purse you’re using to clean up the spilled beer,” he said.
Velvet voice. Soft. Husky. As smooth and warm as their very best whiskey—the kind she kept hidden beneath the bar for special customers. She felt every word he spoke on each of the nerve endings in her body.
Doomed. The new, reformed Cat Sheehan was utterly doomed.
Then what he’d said sunk in and Cat looked down at her hand. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” she said when she spied what she’d been using as a rag.
It was a small, cloth handbag belonging to a customer seated at the bar. Fortunately, the woman was one of their regulars, a bank teller named Julie. Even more fortunately, Julie was just as drooly-faced over the stranger as Cat, because she seemed to understand Cat’s lapse into hot-man-induced dementia.
“It’ll wash,” Julie mumbled.
The man plucked the damp purse from Cat’s limp fingers and handed it to
