Caught Off Guard. Kira Sinclair

her car, slammed all the locks shut, placed Prada on the seat beside her and called the police.

      Pressing the phone to her ear, Anne tried to calm her breathing so she could hear through the harsh in and out. “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

      “I’d like to—” Her words were cut off midstream by a scream so loud it echoed off the windows and bounced through the car. The response was involuntary, a knee-jerk reaction to someone tapping loudly on the window next to her head.

      “Ma’am? Are you all right? Ma’am? What’s wrong?” The voice on the other end of the line sharpened with concern.

      “I’m sorry.” Anne’s eyes narrowed as she looked through the driver’s side window of her Miata to find Blake Mitchell staring back at her. What the hell was he doing here? Now? At the exact moment she needed him?

      No, that wasn’t right. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone. She was fine.

      Glaring at him, she turned away and continued talking to the dispatcher. “Someone just scared me. I need to report a break-in at my town house.”

      “Are you in any danger? Are you inside the home? Is the intruder still there? “

      “No, I’m fine. I’m outside in my car. I’m not sure if anyone is still inside. I didn’t stick around to find out.”

      The dispatcher took her address and said an officer would be there shortly. After assuring the woman that she didn’t need to stay on the phone with her until their arrival, Anne shut off her phone and sat staring through her windshield for a moment. Her pulse was finally dropping, which was good because she wasn’t sure her heart could handle any more ups and downs in one day.

      Taking a deep breath, she turned her head to find Blake right where she’d left him, leaning against the side of her car, one arm propped on the roof, positioned slightly behind the window so he’d been out of her line of sight. She wasn’t entirely certain that had been an accident.

      His dark-chocolate eyes stared down at her, watchful, assessing. She wasn’t sure she liked that at all. It gave her the sensation of being weighed and measured, as if he could see everything inside her even if she didn’t want him to.

      Definitely not pleasant. She much preferred when his eyes smoldered.

      She dug in her purse for keys, then popped them into the ignition and cranked the car for power before rolling down her window. For some reason, she wanted to keep the closed door firmly between them. His eyes narrowed and one eyebrow lifted. She had the distinct impression he found her caution amusing.

      Cold January air gushed through the opening. Another reason to keep her butt firmly in the car. She turned the heat up.

      “What are you doing here?”

      “I came to see you. And I’m guessing by the way you bolted out of that house like your ass was on fire that you’re in a bit of a jam.”

      A bit of a jam. Ha! “Why?”

      “Why are you in a bit of a jam? I don’t know. You tell me.”

      “Why did you come see me? Now.” Four weeks, three days and nine hours after he’d let her walk away.

      “I was in Huntsville for a consultation, thought I’d stop by and see Karyn since I was so close.”

      “She’s not here.”

      “Apparently. I talked to her earlier.”

      So if he wasn’t here to track down his sister … “How did you know where I live?” Her brain, sluggish from the scare, finally caught up. Waving her hands, she cut off his response, answering her own question, “Never mind. Karyn told you.”

      A deep sound rolled from the center of his chest. It reminded her of the sound Prada made when she deigned to allow Anne to pet her. It wasn’t an outright laugh … more of a quiet admission of amusement. “No, actually, she didn’t. I own a security firm. Finding people is part of my job.”

      “So … what, you looked me up on the internet?”

      His only response was a shrug.

      Damn it. She could only guess at the shit he’d found. Because surely he hadn’t resisted the urge to look up the exploits of her alcohol-and-drug-soaked sexcapades. After all, everyone else wanted to know.

      “Entertained?” Her lip curled up in disdain, for both him and herself. Anger and embarrassment twisted inside making her a bit harsh. “So you decided to pop by for an unannounced visit a month after we screwed each other’s brains out, why?” And why now? It wasn’t exactly the most convenient time for her to receive visitors.

      “Well, that’s a flattering visual.”

      “You prefer sex? Just sex?”

      “I don’t think you can call it just sex when the marathon session goes for five hours and leaves my brain fuzzy the next morning.”

      What the hell was she doing? She was fighting—and flirting if she was honest—with a man she barely knew, sitting in her car outside her very broken into town house, while she waited for the cops.

      “Forget it. I don’t care why you stopped by. Now isn’t a great time. Go away.”

      “No.”

      “What do you mean no?” Had she exited her house into an alternate universe? Or maybe she was still asleep. That was it. It would certainly explain the crappy sales report she’d gotten raked over the coals for—she never made mistakes like that. A nightmare tied to hearing her mother’s voice every day for a week. If she lost her job, her mother would only insist harder that she come home.

      And the ransacked house. Another dig at her security.

      And the sexy-as-hell devil with the deep chocolate, bite-me eyes and stubborn demeanor who had shown up on her doorstep after a month? That was just too many lonely nights of lustful thinking.

      This was all a nightmare … or maybe this last part was more a dream. She’d wake up any minute, Prada would beg her for breakfast and she’d race off for her morning Starbucks.

      “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

      Or maybe not. Sighing, she said, “Someone broke into my place. I’m waiting here for the police to show up. Thanks to you scaring me half to death and making me scream in the dispatcher’s ear, I would guess they’ll be here shortly.”

      Blake reached inside her open window, ran his hand a little too close to the side of her breast for sanity, and unlocked the car doors.

      It was a sad state of affairs. Her brain shortcircuited at the nearness of his hand, leaving her stupid and powerless as he walked around to the passenger side, opened the door and plopped his butt into her front seat. She’d clearly had enough time to lock his ass out in the cold. If she’d thought of it.

      Instead, a laugh—probably hysteria—bubbled up inside her chest at the look of absolute horror he gave the spitting, clawing sack of skin in his hands. He held the cat as far in front of him as the console would allow. “Why do you have a skinned squirrel in your car?”

      Reaching over, she snatched her baby from his hands. “Prada is not a squirrel.” She turned her focus to the cat and held her up to coo at her, “Are you, baby?” She did it more because she knew it would bother him than for anything else. How she knew this, she had no idea, but she was dead certain it would.

      And the curl of his lip and squint in his eyes proved her right.

      “She’s a hairless cat.” Placing the cat in her lap, the black-pink-and-white mottled ball of skin curled up, keeping her eyes firmly on the man who’d dared to pluck her up from her comfy seat.

      He watched, a mixture of horror and bewilderment on his face. “Why do you have a hairless cat?”

      She shrugged, continuing to run her hand