Sullivan's Last Stand. Harper Allen

nape of her neck had excited him as no blatant display of any other woman’s cleavage ever had. Her mouth was wide, and a dead giveaway to whatever she was feeling. She was slim, her muscles had definition, and all in all she was as unlike the kittenish blondes he was used to as possible.

      He’d fallen for her like a ton of bricks.

      Things had ended badly between them, and it had been his fault entirely. But as brief as their affair had been, there had been moments about it that he’d clung to since she’d walked out on him. One wet afternoon they’d gone to a horrendously bad kickboxing double feature, and Bailey had laughed so hard she’d spilled a jumbo carton of popcorn all over him. Once they’d gone on a picnic, and she’d fallen asleep in his lap under a big shade tree, with the sunlight dappling her features, the breeze stirring those honey-amber strands of hair, and him just watching her, drinking in all the delicate details of her face and stamping them on his memory. He could remember every single time they’d made love—her hands on him, his on her, the scent of her skin and the taste of her mouth and the small shallow sigh she gave just before the two of them reached the limits of their control and soared over the far edge of desire together.

      But from her attitude toward him since she’d walked into his office, it was all too obvious she’d kept none of those memories. And if they didn’t exist for her, then maybe one day he would lose them, too. Fear shafted through him, bright and painful.

      “My sister and now your best operative. Are you starting to see a pattern here?”

      Wrenching his thoughts back to the present, Sullivan frowned as the elevator doors opened and Bailey stepped in. He followed her and the doors slid closed behind him.

      “Not yet. But there’s something taking shape I don’t like.” He reached over and grasped her shoulder lightly. Immediately she stiffened.

      “Hands off, Sully. Like I told you, this is strictly work.”

      “I know.” He pivoted her around to face him. “And like you also said, my firm screwed up. Why don’t you go back to Triple-A and I’ll call you after I talk to Hank? There’s no need for you to be involved in this.”

      She gave him a blankly incredulous look. “Come again?”

      He sighed. “Let’s face it, the past half hour just proved we can’t even keep up a civilized facade when we’re together.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit. “Hell, we’ve got a history, and my part in it isn’t anything I feel too proud about. Let me find Hank, locate Angelica, and send you a report when I’m through.”

      “You’re giving me the brush-off.” Her voice was dis-believing. “Again.”

      “For crying out loud, Bailey, it’s not like that at—” he began, but she cut him off.

      “It’s exactly like that.” Her glance flicked to somewhere a little lower than his midsection, and then back again to his face. “Tell me, Sully, are they made of brass? Is that your secret? Because you’ve got a nerve like I just don’t freakin’ believe!”

      Her eyes glinted ominously. “Your conscience is bugging you. Tough. Learn to live with it, because this time I’m not going to quietly disappear just to make things easier on you. I’m coming with you to talk to Jackson. You owe me that much, at least.”

      The elevator doors opened to the lobby, and the guard behind the desk looked over at them. He gave the man a brief nod and switched his attention back to Bailey.

      “It won’t work, you and me together, and you know it, lady.” He shrugged. “Within twenty-four hours you’ll be at my throat or I’ll have you in my bed—and neither of those scenarios can have a happy ending.”

      “You never know.” Her tone was ice. “Why don’t we give that first one a shot and see how it plays out?”

      He wasn’t going to win this one, Sullivan told himself in defeat. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. He took a deep breath.

      “Move that sweet butt and let’s get going, honey.”

      For a moment—just for a moment—the woman he’d once known looked up at him through those clear, brilliant eyes. Then she was gone again.

      “Don’t push me, Sullivan.” Her lips tightened. “I’m in no mood, believe me.”

      No matter what she’d said to him, it looked like Bailey Flowers was back in his life again, he told himself as he exited the building behind the slim, straight figure striding ahead of him to the parking lot. And no matter what he’d said to her, he was glad she was.

      Except that in a day or so he was going to have to arrange things so that she walked away from him again. But this time he’d have to make her hate him enough to stay away, Sullivan thought wearily.

      And this time it would have to be for good.

      IT SEEMED AS THOUGH they’d hit upon a way of being together that didn’t lead to a confrontation, Bailey thought—total silence. So far on the drive to Jackson’s house neither one of them had said a word. Sullivan had concentrated on avoiding the worst of the traffic snarl-ups, she had stared out of her window, and an edgy peace was prevailing.

      She closed her eyes, acutely aware of his presence beside her, and tried to make some sense of the way she’d acted back in his office. She’d walked in there planning to keep her emotions under control whatever the provocation, but within minutes she’d—she’d—

      For crying out loud, Flowers, she told herself uncomfortably, within minutes you practically had your tongue in his mouth. How restrained was that?

      Even so, right up until the second her lips had touched his she’d thought she could handle it, because what she’d told him was true—she was over Terrence Patrick Sullivan. Completely and totally over him. So why at the exact moment of contact had she experienced that icily electric thrill, as if she had leaped recklessly out into empty space and was suddenly plunging toward destruction?

      Her only consolation was that he’d obviously been hit by the same force that had smashed her detachment to bits. And although she was pretty sure she’d hidden her reaction from him, Bailey thought shakily, there had been no mistaking his response for anything other than pure, immediate desire.

      But that meant nothing. She opened her eyes. If all she wanted from the man was another brief physical fling, she could be in his bed within twenty-four hours. She could have those strong, hard hands on whatever part of her body she chose. She could see those blue, blue eyes looking down on her and becoming blindly hazed with passion. She could feel his mouth the way she used to feel it, slowly and unerringly igniting every secret desire she’d ever imagined.

      But that would be all she would ever have from him. And that was why she was over him.

      “The way I hear it, your guy Jackson used to have an alcohol-abuse problem,” she said abruptly. “How under control is it?”

      A driver in front of them made a typical Boston lane change—no signal and at the last possible minute—and Sullivan jammed on his brakes. He looked over at her. “Hank takes it day by day, just like any other recovering alcoholic. He’s got his five-year pin from AA, if that’s what you’re getting at, and I’d trust him with my life.”

      “But you’re still checking up on him personally,” she argued. “You’ve got some doubts about him, haven’t you?”

      “No.” His tone was flat and uncompromising. “If he hasn’t been at work for the past few days then something’s the matter. I should have known about this sooner.” He geared the Jaguar down as they entered a rotary, merging seamlessly with the flow of traffic. “You were right about one thing. I’ve let myself slack off these last few months.”

      There was a hard edge to his voice, but Bailey knew instinctively it wasn’t directed at her. It was directed at himself, she thought curiously, darting a look at him through her lashes, but self-chastisement was something that the Terry Sullivan she knew didn’t indulge