Skin Deep. Tori Carrington

took her key, opened the door to the Mustang and handed her in just as he always did. He told her he was just being a gentleman. He knew it was because he always got a little glimpse of some prime leg as she climbed inside. Of course it helped that she was completely ignorant of his not-so-innocent game.

      “So,” he said, watching as she put the bag with the book on the passenger seat. “Do you feel better?”

      She nodded. “Much. Thanks.”

      He glanced at his watch. “What do you feel up for? Some primo Cuban or seafood?”

      She twisted her lips. “Actually, I’m not very hungry. I thought I’d just go home and call it an early night.”

      Michael narrowed his gaze. Talk about not so innocent. Kyra had to be one of the worst liars he’d ever met. Which, of course, was yet another reason why she was so endearing.

      “Book that good, huh?”

      Her laughter sounded unnaturally husky in the moist night air. “Go home and nuke something, Michael. I’ll see you at work in the morning.”

      He hesitated then finally pushed away from where he was leaning on the door. “Okay. ’Night.”

      She grasped his hand, her skin remarkably hot.

      He glanced at her.

      “Thanks. You know, for this.”

      “What are friends for?”

      “Hmm.” She seemed to give him a once-over. “What, indeed?”

      Then she started the Mustang and pulled away, not even giving him the little wave she normally did.

      Michael rubbed his chin, then started walking toward his SUV. Why did he feel as though Kyra had just broken some sort of unspoken code between them? And why did he both dread and celebrate the possibility?

      2

      OKAY, something definitely was not right.

      The following evening, Michael wove his SUV through rush-hour traffic, heat rising in waves from the sizzling asphalt, thick black storm clouds gathering on the horizon. He slammed on the brakes to avoid ramming a car that had cut him off from the front and prayed the guy riding his bumper wouldn’t hit him from behind.

      Michael blew out a long breath. Wrangling with traffic was not helping his dark mood.

      He’d had an odd sensation in his gut ever since he’d watched Kyra drive off from the bookstore. And that feeling had only gained momentum since then. He’d gotten her answering machine when he’d called to check on her last night. And every time he’d ducked into her office throughout the day, she’d had her nose stuck in that book. She’d still refused to let him see it. And the paper bag she’d taped to the cover only lent a more mysterious quality to the hardback. Then when he’d stopped by her office to see if she wanted to go for a cup of coffee after work, he’d discovered she’d left an hour earlier.

      What in the hell was the matter with her? Was she upset with him? She didn’t seem to be. In fact, she didn’t seem to be all that upset about Craig Holsom and their breakup, either. Which was odder still. It usually took her a good long week of moping, mock depression, and marathon eating to get over a breakup, even if the relationship itself had only lasted the same amount of time.

      He just didn’t get it.

      An exit ramp emerged to his right, a new shopping complex beckoning him from beyond. He swerved to get off the crowded highway. Maybe he’d given up too easily last night. Maybe she’d needed him. Maybe he’d read the signals wrong and she’d spent the night washing her pillow with tears.

      The thought made his jaw clench. Craig Holsom, and the dozen or so that had come before him, didn’t deserve an hour of Kyra’s company, much less a single one of her tears.

      A pint of Ben & Jerry’s. That should get Kyra to open up to him. Tell him what was going on. He quickly stopped by a nearby store, made the purchase, then pointed the SUV in the direction of her apartment complex. Within twenty minutes he stood on the second-floor landing, knocking on her door.

      “Kyra?” he called through the old, neon-pink-painted door.

      No response.

      He grimaced. Her Mustang was parked at the curb, so he knew she had to be home. “I know you’re in there, so you might as well open up.”

      Of course, there was the possibility that she’d already replaced Holsom with the next jerk on her list. The thought bothered him more than it should have. Far more.

      He cursed under his breath and knocked again.

      “Do you mind! Some people are trying to watch Wheel of Fortune! Keep it down up there!” the landlady who lived a floor below bellowed up the stairs. “This ain’t no bordello.”

      Not that you could tell by her language, Michael thought. He stared down the winding stairwell right into Mrs. Kaminsky’s too-thin, aging face. He always found it hard to believe that such a window-shattering voice could come from such a small package. “Sorry, Mrs. K., I’ll try to be more quiet.”

      “You do that!” she yelled, nearly blowing back his hair.

      Michael grimaced and stepped up to Kyra’s apartment door. Why Kyra put up with the old battle-ax was beyond him. Strangely, she seemed to like the landlady’s interference. Perhaps because she’d had such little parental involvement for so much of her life.

      “Kyra?” he said more quietly, curving his hand around the doorknob. It turned easily. Figures she’d leave her door unlocked. Then again, he couldn’t imagine any thief with the guts to get past Mrs. Kaminsky.

      He pushed open the door and peered around the colorfully decorated interior of the apartment. The old place was nice. With large, airy rooms and polished pale wood floors, the one-bedroom apartment almost made putting up with the curmudgeonly old landlady worth it. Almost. If Michael were Kyra, he’d have moved out a long time ago.

      “Kyra?” He softly closed the door behind him, eyeing a line of discarded clothes littering the floor. He frowned and picked up the skirt she’d been wearing earlier. Kyra was fastidiously neat. It wasn’t like her to just leave her clothes lying around…He picked up each item as he went, then peered into the empty bedroom. Where was she? His gaze focused on a small, empty box sitting just outside the closed bathroom door. Dropping the skirt, he picked up the box and knocked on the door.

      “Kyra, are you in there?”

      A small squeal told him that she was. He turned the box around. Hair dye? He grimaced. What in the hell was she doing in there?

      The lock clicked on the door and he stepped back, expecting her to come out. He quickly discovered that she hadn’t been unlocking the door, but rather locking it, as if afraid he would come in.

      “Kyra, what the hell is going on?” he asked through the thick wood.

      “Go away,” she said.

      Michael leaned against the doorjamb and sighed. “You’re upset with me. That’s it, isn’t it? The reason why you didn’t want to go out to eat with me last night, why you barely talked to me today.”

      “Don’t be stupid.”

      He looked at where he still held the ice cream in his other hand and considered putting it in the freezer. “If I said something to make you angry with me, I apologize.”

      “No need to apologize.”

      “I see. Is that because there isn’t anything to apologize for? Or are you saying I shouldn’t waste my time because what I said or did was completely unforgivable?”

      A soft giggle filtered through the wood. He stared at the door, wondering just what was so funny.

      “Kyra, come on out here and talk to me. I’m