Undone by Moonlight. Wendy Etherington

      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.

       2

      DEVIN ROLLED OVER, and his head throbbed in retaliation.

      “I’m supposed to be dead,” he groaned.

      His mouth felt as though somebody had filled it full of cotton. His body was stiff; his energy level was depleted by the rolling. And had he mentioned the head-throbbing?

      Then he smelled her.

      Calla. So full of hope and brightness.

      Her warm vanilla scent surrounded him, comforting even though he didn’t deserve solace or sympathy. Maybe he had something to live for, after all.

      Flashes of the night before, however, returned in a wave of panic and humiliation. Snippets of conversation about cake, three-ways and hits. Whether those were mob hits or his continual focus on the Yankees’ lousy batting average, he wasn’t sure. Him kissing her, shoving his hand beneath her skirt.

      Please, oh, please, tell me I didn’t actually do that.

      Course the Almighty wasn’t listening as a wave of nausea turned his stomach. Not that he deserved mercy regardless.

      He chanced opening his eyes, surprised when no further pain assaulted him. The room was dark, with only a strip of light shining under the door and a star-shaped night-light plugged into the wall to his right.

      Hold everything.

      This wasn’t his apartment, and he certainly wasn’t in his bed. Squinting, he could make out the white-and-pink rose-laden comforter covering him. Beneath the sheet—also pink—he was naked.

      Oh, man. Oh, no. Please. No.

      Guilt shot through every cell in his body. Surely he hadn’t had sex with her. He wouldn’t have taken advantage of her that way. Not even he could have done that.

      Fear drove him from the bed. Each movement caused his stomach to roll and his head to pound, but he gritted his teeth and kept going. He was in the midst of figuring out what he could wear when he saw his clothes neatly folded on the dresser.

      He wasn’t sure what that level of care said, but knew he shouldn’t think about the implications too long.

      And yet, the dread that he’d given into his baser needs with Calla when he’d promised himself not to go near her was nearly overwhelmed by the anxiety that she was, even now, planning their wedding. Both scenarios gave him the motivation to stumble into the bathroom, splash water on his face and hair, rinse with the mouthwash he found beneath the sink, get dressed then crack the bedroom door.

      Immediately, he smelled bacon.

      Surprisingly, his stomach whimpered with need. If he could get his hands on that bacon, a gallon of coffee and four or ten aspirin, he might make it through the day.

      With a confidence he didn’t feel, he strode through the living room to the bar-high counter bordering the kitchen.

      Wearing a robe the color of cotton candy, she stood in front of the stove. Her tanned and toned legs peaked from beneath the robe’s hem. Her long blond hair was piled on top of her head in a messy mass that turned him on in a big way.

      But then wasn’t everything associated with her arousing?

      “Bacon?” he managed to croak.

      She smiled at him over her shoulder. “I thought I heard water running. Pretty fast shower.”

      “I didn’t take a shower.”

      The smile turned to a scowl. “Why not? I put out fresh soap and shampoo. Not my girly stuff, either.”

      “I’m probably in your way.”

      “You’re not. Don’t you want bacon?” When he nodded, she added, “Breakfast will take a few more minutes. Plenty of time for a shower.”

      “Don’t you have work to do?”

      “It’s Sunday. Wanna take a shower or tell me about last night?”

      He headed back to the bedroom. In the shower, he acknowledged the hot, powerful spray from overhead cleared much of his confusion.

      One, sex between him and Calla was still imaginary. A realization that was both good and bad.

      Two, his head didn’t hurt just because he’d overindulged in whiskey. He’d been whacked on the back of the head. Reaching behind him, he found a bandage and smooth skin around the edges. Hell. Somebody’d shaved a section of his head. He wasn’t vain about stuff like that but still … a bald spot?

      Not only did he not have game, his game was on strike.

      For the shaving and bandage, he recalled a hospital nurse. For the assault he drew a blank.

      He shook his head, which did