She's No Angel. Leslie Kelly

the dress sticking out of it. When he felt its silkiness between his rough fingers, he half wished he hadn’t bothered. Because it reminded him altogether too much of the silky fabric the woman was wearing underneath her dress.

      “What do you think you’re doing?” She started to get out.

      “Wait, you need something on your feet,” he said. He quickly examined the first pair of shoes he found, a pair of spike-heeled sandals with a torn strap that had been caught in the suitcase zipper. There was only one way to describe them; they were high-priced, first-class screw-me shoes. Perfect for driving a man crazy with lust, but not for soothing blistered heels. “Definitely not,” he muttered from between clenched teeth.

      “My feet?” she said. Her jaw dropped, those expressive eyes growing wide and round. “You’re…”

      “I’m getting your damn shoes, would you stay where you are?” he growled, tossing the sexy shoes aside, trying hard not to think about how they’d feel digging into the backs of his legs while he was between hers.

      Her mouth snapped shut, but she continued to watch wide-eyed, as if not believing he was poking around in her stuff, trying to find something to protect her feet. The feet he hadn’t given a damn about when he’d first picked her up.

      Guilty conscience. That was the only reason he was reaching into the dangerous confines of her luggage, pushing aside all sorts of silky, sexy things that made a sweat break out on his brow. Did the woman not own anything but underwear? How many frigging bra and panty sets did one female require? Blue ones, pink ones…He was losing his mind here. And had she never heard of sneakers?

      Finally, feeling the rubbery sole of a flip-flop, he tugged it out, then felt around for the other one. It wasn’t there. “I guess your aunts weren’t really worried about doing a good packing job,” he said as he tossed her the shoe.

      “Try that one,” she said, pointing toward a smaller case.

      He did as she suggested, unzipping the smaller case. She was right, the other shoe was inside. Thank God.

      Tossing it over, he rose and stepped to the Jeep in time to watch her slip the flip-flop on her bare foot. “You’re not taking that with you,” he said, nodding toward the tire iron.

      Tilting her head to one side, she stared up at him for a moment, then sighed. “You’re right. I probably shouldn’t.”

      “You still feeling violent?”

      She stared hard at the screw-me sandals. “Do you know what I paid for those shoes?”

      Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been enough to cause the instantaneous reaction in him. “Give me the tire iron.”

      “What if I get a flat tire?”

      “Call AAA. You’ll have a car with you this time.”

      She handed the iron bar over grudgingly, then stepped out of the car, hissing as her weight shifted onto her feet.

      “You all right?”

      “I’ll be fine.” She was entirely focused on her belongings and her scratched car, staring at them, then at the two old houses. And suddenly her anger appeared to fade again. He could have sworn he saw a tiny, reluctant smile playing around on those full lips of hers. “They are tough old birds, aren’t they?”

      “Just don’t wring their necks and stuff them.”

      She laughed, as though he’d been teasing her. He supposed he had been…. Where did that come from?

      Jen bent over and began picking up her things, shoving them into her bags. Without asking if she wanted him to, Mike began to help her. He avoided anything silky, sticking only to toiletries. Even that was a little dangerous considering he wanted to lift a bottle of creamy lotion to his nose and smell it, to try to figure out whether it had provided the incredible scent wafting from Jennifer’s soft skin.

      “Do you want me to come in with you?” he asked, having no idea where the impulse had come from. He could honestly say it wasn’t out of fear that she was going to do anyone harm—despite her anger, he knew she wasn’t going to hurt her elderly relatives. No, he had made the offer because of that hint of vulnerability he’d seen earlier during their drive. And the touch of humor he was seeing now.

      He liked this woman. He sensed he could like her a lot. Considering he already wanted her more than he’d wanted anyone in ages, it was probably a pretty dangerous combination. One that should have sent him running, considering his track record with relationships. As in: two typical losses at the end of long, drawn-out, nine-inning matches. And one total strikeout, complete with a hospital stay for a bullet wound.

      “That’s nice of you, but no thanks.”

      He still didn’t go. Even with Mutt whining from the back seat, wanting either to get moving or get out, he just stood there, waiting to see if she needed him.

      Women often needed him. His brothers thought he liked that. Hell, maybe they were right. Maybe he did have some basic urge to take care of people who couldn’t take care of themselves, quite often attractive women. He had the feeling anybody who wanted to be a cop had the basic urge to protect. And, in his line of work—particularly when working vice—he met a lot of women who’d been abused or taken advantage of. By pimps, dealers, hustlers. There was always somebody in need.

      Maybe this woman wasn’t like any he’d met on the streets of New York. She was, however, still in need, whether she knew it or not. Even if all she needed was for someone to make sure she had a pair of shoes on her feet.

      He wasn’t abandoning her. Not yet.

      “I’m going to be fine,” she said with a resolute nod. “Obviously I have a lot to say to my aunts….”

      “Are you sure you can say it without a weapon in hand?”

      “My tongue has been registered as a lethal weapon in a couple of states.”

      There was a suitable comeback to that, he was quite sure. And it would have rolled out of his brother Max’s mouth immediately. But Mike wasn’t wired that way, to grab any opening a woman provided and charm his way through it. No. Instead, he kept his reactions deep inside, schooled in giving no one an advantage by revealing his thoughts. Especially like the ones flooding his mind right now…the heated images of what her tongue was capable of doing. Wicked things. Amazing things.

      She glanced at the house. “I feel like I’m heading into the lion’s den.” Her face was a little pink. Probably from her stroll in the sunshine—not a subtle admission that she knew what had been going through his mind. And certainly not that her thoughts had echoed his.

      “Have any idea what you’re going to say?”

      “Not exactly. They don’t understand,” she said, not looking very sure who she was trying to convince more, herself or him. “I need to make them see that I’m talking about The Love Boat on land for seniors. Not the nasty, run-down home for the indigent that they’re picturing.”

      “Sounds reasonable.” And it did. To him. A twenty-seven-year-old single male living in a small house in Queens. If he were the one being asked to leave his home and move into a sterile “retirement community”? Well…he wasn’t so sure.

      “Thank you, Mr. Taylor. I really do appreciate you stopping, but I can handle this on my own now.”

      He stared into her face, noting the blueness of her eyes, a contrast to the stormy gray they were when she was angry. She looked calm…resolute. Able to take on any challenge. He suspected her relatives would have more trouble on their hands with a determined Jennifer Feeney than with an enraged one. Because something told him this woman didn’t give up when there was something she wanted. Ever.

      Oh. Right. She’d told him exactly that, hadn’t she?

      “Goodbye,” she said, putting out her hand to shake his. She didn’t suggest they see one another again, didn’t offer her phone