Indiscreet. Alison Kent

was over.”

      “Hmm.”

      “What’s with the ‘hmm’?”

      “I’m just wondering if you told him before or after you lost your panty hose.”

      “A lady never kisses and tells.” Not that there was anything to tell, since she and Patrick hadn’t taken time to kiss. “Besides, you should know better than to press me into a relationship. Last I heard, you were on the outs with that particular bliss. Are things okay now with you and Trina?”

      Devon shrugged. “What can I say?”

      “You can say the two of you are working on it.”

      “I’m not sure there’s anything to work on.”

      She shook her head in reprimand. “Don’t tell me that. I’ve never seen a couple more suited than the two of you.”

      “Get real, Annie. What do you and I know about suitable couples? All we know is what happens when a couple doesn’t work. And right now, Trina and I do not work.”

      Annabel didn’t have anything to say in response. Devon had made his point. And all she could wonder was if either of them would ever find a partner they could fall in love with as easily as they seemed to fall into bed.

       2

      STILL WEARING JEANS, a T-shirt and a bomber jacket, Patrick Coffey leaned a hip on the low railing that bordered Annabel’s balcony, a bottled malt beverage sweating in one hand. He liked Houston in December. Nice and breezy. The perfect weather for stargazing and drinking himself flat on his ass.

      Annabel wouldn’t be expecting him, though arriving home to find him waiting wouldn’t come as a surprise. She didn’t approve of what she called his unorthodox behavior, trying to change him, fix him, turn him one way when he was headed another. At least she was finally coming to realize exactly what a pig’s ear he was, and that she wouldn’t be the proud owner of a silk purse anytime soon.

      Leaning beyond the railing, which bit into his upper thighs, he glanced down, hovering over the edge, weaving from side to side until dizziness brought him back up. He lifted the bottle in a toast, celebrating his continued resistance to the temptation of taking a dive four stories to the ground below.

      Another day, another…day.

      And, oh yeah, another toast.

      Earlier tonight in her office, after screwing the both of them mad, he’d walked out on her without saying a word, unable to respond to her statement about no longer being able to see him.

      Hell, woman, he’d wanted to say. For once, just open your goddamn eyes.

      But he hadn’t said anything. He’d needed to get his thoughts together before putting them into words. He hadn’t done a lot of talking the last few years, and what skills he’d once used to express himself had pretty much seized up.

      Not a big loss, since he didn’t have much to say these days. Neither did he have anyone wanting to listen. Really listen. Though, he supposed with another fine toast, he could probably find a willing audience if he were to make up a few horror stories about his captivity and exaggerate the reality of what had been a hell of a lot of boredom.

      He couldn’t help but wonder if the searchers would have made half the effort to find him had they known he hadn’t been strung up by his balls at all. Instead, he’d spent a whole lot of hours flat on his back, napping in the sun, an ankle shackled to the base of a huge palm. And, hey. He’d lost a good forty pounds.

      Yeah, he doubted that scenario would’ve garnered a lot of sympathy. Thank goodness he’d had his brother to count on. Ray had refused to give him up for gone. Three long years, and he’d put everything he’d had into the search, exhausting his finances, putting his own life on hold, working to right a very bad wrong.

      He’d been just as conscientious since Patrick’s return, making sure he had time and space to get his act together without the pressure of reporters and other inquiring minds butting in. Thing was, it was too much time and way too much space. Lately, they rarely spoke of anything more vital than football stats.

      Oh, yeah. Rushing yardage and passing percentages were the things that made life worth living. Patrick considered his bottle, considered his brother. Hell. If nothing else, Ray’s inability to shed the guilt eating him up deserved the biggest toast of the night.

      He hadn’t been responsible for the kidnapping, but nothing Patrick said made a dent in Ray’s hardheaded insistence that he should have been more vigilant in plotting their course, in choosing a captain with a better sense of the region’s criminal climate, in negotiating their freedom when the pirates boarded the schooner.

      Patrick drained the bottle, reached for another, not feeling half the buzz he’d been aiming for when he’d grabbed the two six-packs on his way home from the gIRL-gEAR offices. Home. Now that was pretty damn funny, thinking of Annabel’s place as home when she didn’t even want him around.

      As much as Ray sidestepped digging through the pit of Patrick’s psyche, Annabel didn’t even bother with a shovel, but plunged knee-deep through his crap. She expected him to be the man he was, the best he could be, no matter how many bamboo shoots he’d had shoved under his fingernails.

      He smiled, a strange feeling he was still getting used to, remembering the night he’d bought her at the auction. Damned if that hadn’t been some kind of night. She’d wanted answers: Why had he bought her? Where did he get the money? What was he expecting in return?

      He’d had no answers to give. He’d simply herded her into the narrow alley behind the bar, wrapped her up in his jacket and backed her barely dressed body into the cold brick wall. He’d been healthy and horny. She’d been sex on stiletto heels. He’d kissed her until neither one of them could breathe, and his cock sat up and begged.

      No surprise there.

      What he hadn’t seen coming at all, what had crept up from behind and slipped a shiv between his ribs, was her appeal above the neck. After their bodies were spent, the brain sex took over. And it was every bit as addictive as conventional intercourse.

      She was older than he was, independent, smart as hell. She was ballsy and brash and driven. In a horribly Freudian sort of way, she reminded him of Soledad—the woman who had been the one and only reason he’d held on to his sanity during those years away. And that was enough reason to let Annabel kick him to the curb.

      Having one woman’s blood on his hands was a sin for which he had a long time left to pay.

      Thing was, it wasn’t easy lately for him to separate past from present, because Soledad’s death was the reason he couldn’t let Annabel blow him off. Call it a hunch. Call it intuition. Call it thirty-six months kept captive in the hot seat.

      Patrick’s cushy homecoming was about to fall apart.

      He didn’t have anything solid to back up his suspicions, didn’t have proof to take to his contact at the FBI, didn’t have anything more than his instincts to rely on.

      But he knew. He knew.

      Russell Dega, the pirate leader who’d escaped during the confusion of Patrick’s rescue, was here. The scum-sucking thief had come to close the one piece of business left unsettled between them: ending Patrick’s life.

      And if that didn’t deserve another toast, he didn’t know what did.

      He finished off his fourth drink and had just reached for his fifth from the open six-pack sitting on the balcony’s black-iron table when the whir of the loft’s private elevator signaled Annabel’s arrival. His gut clenched hard in response.

      Using his knife, he pried off the bottle cap and tried not to choke on the memory of what they’d done earlier in her office.

      The disk clattered against the patio as the converted freight car stopped on the fourth floor. As he listened, Annabel lifted the elevator’s rolling