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  “Good.” His warm fingers braceleted her flailing wrists. “You should be scared, dammit!” Even in the dark, there was no mistaking his grim expression. “What the hell are you doing out here at this hour?”

  “Gosh, let me think. Oh, I know—I live here!”

  “Well, here’s a news flash,” he shot back, effortlessly reeling her closer as she tried to pull free. “You won’t be living anywhere if you don’t have better sense than to tiptoe around after dark with your head bowed like some scared little mouse. God, Mallory! Don’t you have enough sense to know that in a neighborhood like this, any display of weakness is an invitation to be mugged—or worse?”

  “You mean like having to fend off some know-it-all wannabe stalker?”

  He leaned into her, so close she could feel the warm wash of his breath on her icy skin. “Believe me, sweetheart. If I were stalking you, there wouldn’t be any wannabe about it.”

  Maybe it was the delicious tickle of terror evoked by his words. Or the sight of that hard, chiseled mouth mere inches from her own. But in a flash, awareness roared to life, crowding out her anger. She registered his heat, his size, the strength of the hands dwarfing her own.

  Her throat went tight. And try as she might to tell herself it was a delayed reaction to the fright she’d received, no way did that explain the overwhelming urge she had to crowd closer and give herself over to his potent masculine power—

  “Dammit, you’re shivering.” Abruptly, he released her. Relief streaked through her, only to be snuffed out as he whipped off his coat and wrapped it around her. “Come on.” His voice was as hard as the arm suddenly looping her waist, urging her forward. “Let’s get you in out of this cold.”

  She thought of her apartment, and the idea of being trapped in that small, intimate space with him had her digging in her heels. “I’m fine. Really. And you can drop the concerned act because I’m absolutely not inviting you in—”

  “No problem. My car’s right here.”

  “What?” She tried to struggle as he unlocked the door of a big black SUV, only to find that his enveloping coat was as confining as a straitjacket. “No, Gabriel. While I understand your compelling need to put your hands on me—” she gamely tried to infuse some of the old flippancy into her voice “—it’s been a really long day.”

  “We need to talk.” He opened the door and planted his free hand on the roof of the car, neatly boxing her in. “So either we go inside to your place where it’ll be just the two of us or you get in the car and we drive to some nice, public restaurant. You decide.”

  It was no choice at all, and he knew it. Yet it was also clear he wasn’t going away. “Fine. We’ll go to the restaurant.” Giving him a narrow-eyed stare, she allowed him to help her up onto the seat. “But this had better be brief.”

  He said nothing to that, simply shut the door, walked around and got in on the other side.

  Five miles and what felt like another world later, they were seated across from each other at a booth in a cozy little diner that came complete with checked curtains on the windows, a bell over the door and an array of mouthwatering scents wafting from the kitchen.

  “Hungry?” he asked as the waitress arrived with her pad.

  Mallory shrugged, ignoring the sudden grinding of her empty stomach. “Not really.” Dinner out simply didn’t figure into her budget. Not when she had food at home, and the twenty dollars in her wallet was supposed to last her through the end of the week.

  He studied her a moment, then turned to the waitress. “Two coffees, the chicken fried steak for me and a chef salad for the lady.” Switching his attention back to Mallory, he ignored her look of disbelief. “I’m buying,” he informed her matter-of-factly. “Now, what kind of dressing do you want?” When she simply continued to stare at him, he gave a slight shrug. “Make it Thousand Island,” he told the bemused server.

  “Make it blue cheese,” she contradicted. If she was going to eat, she might as well get what she liked. “And I’d rather have tea instead of coffee, please. And separate checks, if you would.” She’d just have to skip lunch during her job hunt the next few days.

  The waitress, a stout, pleasant-faced woman in her forties, wisely refrained from comment. She asked a few order-related questions, brought their drinks, then hustled off to post their order and take care of the rest of her tables.

  Mallory gave the tea time to steep, then wrapped her hands around the cup and took a sip, hoping to counteract the exhaustion that was suddenly sweeping through her.

  Gabe looked over at her, far too astute for comfort. “You all right?”

  She sat up a little straighter. “You mean, except for having been so rudely snatched off the street?”

  “Yes. Except for that.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You mentioned that it had been a long day. Where were you, anyway?”

  She might be tired but she wasn’t dead, and she certainly wasn’t discussing her failure on the employment front. She fluttered her eyelashes. “Where else? I was off meeting Raoul, my secret lover.”

  “Ah.” He took a sip of his coffee. “He must be a real prize to send you home on the bus.”

  She shrugged. “What can I say? He’s French.”

  “My sincere condolences.” His tone was perfectly solemn, but those jewel-tone eyes suddenly gleamed with a touch of laughter.

  It was unexpected. And shockingly attractive. Just like him, she thought, studying that symmetrical, good-looking face. The strong cheekbones, level eyebrows and sensual mouth were enough to turn any woman’s head. But it was the self-assurance, the surety of purpose, the wicked intelligence that held her gaze.

  She felt the pull of his appeal clear to her toes. It didn’t mean anything, of course. She was simply experiencing the ever-present hum of awareness she felt whenever she was near him.

  And if perhaps there was something more? If, as their gazes meshed in that moment of shared humor, she inexplicably felt connected to him?

  An illusion, she told herself sharply. One she couldn’t afford to indulge. Lifting her cup to her mouth, she used the movement as an excuse to look away. “Why were you waiting for me tonight, anyway?”

  There was a moment’s silence. “I came to give you this.” Pulling out his wallet, he extracted two hundred-dollar bills and three twenties—the exact amount of the money order she’d sent him to pay for the locksmith—and held it out.

  “Then you wasted a trip,” she said, making no move to take it. “I’m grateful for the thought, but as it happens I recently received an unexpected windfall so I can afford to pay for—”

  “No.” For a second his mouth tightened with exasperation, then his expression smoothed out. “I’m not taking your money, Mallory. Not for a meal I coerced you into ordering. And certainly not for hardware and labor—” before she could stop him, he picked up her purse, opened it and tucked the cash into an inside pocket “—for a job you didn’t have any control over.”

  “That’s not true,” she said instantly, telling herself she’d just leave the money in his car later if he refused to see reason now. “I could’ve refused to let your man in.”

  “Yes, you could. But it wouldn’t have made any difference. As I believe Sonny told you, he had his orders.”

  “He said if I didn’t let him install the locks, you’d make sure he got fired.”

  “Ah.” Gabe steepled his fingers. “Well, there you have it.”

  There was something in his voice, and she eyed him suspiciously. “It wasn’t true?”

  “Let’s just say it would be tough to do since Sonny owns the business.”

  “Ohmigod,” she breathed. “You two played me. Doesn’t it bother you that I think you’re that ruthless?”

  “Not if it makes you safer.”

  The easy statement stole her breath. At the very least she ought to be angered by his high-handedness, disgusted by the deception, indignant at his interference. Instead, she was stunned by the idea that
he actually seemed to care what happened to her. God knows, her own father hadn’t.

  That’s right. The thought put a little starch back in her spine. So instead of getting all fluttery inside and doing a Sally Field, this would be an excellent time to remember that no matter what Gabriel does, you still have to learn how to take care of yourself.

  Misreading her silence, he raised a hand. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding, since you always seem to think I’ve got an ulterior motive, I’m not saying that just to get into your pants.” His eyes glinted, but this time it wasn’t humor lighting them up. “Not tonight anyway.”

  She tried to ignore the flicker of heat generated by his threat—or was it a promise?—that there’d be another time, and focus on all the questions that still remained between them. Yet before she could do either one, the waitress arrived with their food.

  It smelled fabulous, and with a slight jolt, she realized three things simultaneously.

  Call her a wimp, but she’d had all the responsibility she could handle for one day. Being a grown-up was hard work, and between having to weigh every dime she spent, looking for a job and questioning every word that came out of Gabriel’s mouth, she was just plain worn-out with it. Surely, the world wouldn’t come to an end if she took a time-out and simply enjoyed herself for a measly half hour.

  She supposed it also wouldn’t tilt off its axis if she allowed Gabe one small victory and let him pay for her meal.

  The last was that she was a lot hungrier than she’d thought.

  So it seemed only fitting, after the waitress served her salad, to slide the mound of lettuce across the table, then reach up and intercept Gabe’s plate. “I’ll take that, thanks.”

  The woman didn’t so much as blink. “You bet, honey,” she said, making a hasty retreat.

  Not missing a beat, Mallory slid her fork into the creamy mound of mashed potatoes, slipped it into her mouth and practically moaned with appreciation. “This is wonderful.” She took another blissful bite before finally venturing a glance to see how Gabriel was taking the theft of his food.

  To her surprise, he was watching her with the strangest look on his face.

  One that vanished with the droll twitch of his lips. “Glad you’re enjoying it,” he said drily as he reached for the salad dressing.

  It was the last thing either of them said for quite a while.

  Four

  “W ow.” With a murmured sigh of pleasure, Mallory stretched her feet toward the stream of warm air blasting from the SUV’s heater. “That second piece of pie may have been a mistake. I feel like a boa constrictor that swallowed a goat.”

  Gabe took his eyes off the road to glance over at her. Her heavily lashed eyes were closed, her shining hair tumbled, while her fine-boned profile was a perfect silhouette against the snow-lit night beyond the windows.

  She didn’t look a thing like the minx who’d hijacked his dinner, then devoured it with such hedonistic pleasure that at one point she’d even licked her spoon.

  Instead, she was a dead ringer for a patrician young queen who’d taken a night off from some palace intrigue. Or—his gaze flicked to her mouth—an ultra-exclusive, high-priced courtesan taking a break from the scores of men vying for her attention.

  The lust that had dogged him all night pounced, jaws snapping closed like a vise.

  He wanted to touch her, dammit. He wanted to skim his palm over her silken jaw, rub the pad of his thumb against those soft, full lips, bury his face in the curling mass of that burnished hair.

  Bury himself in her hot silky sex.

  Except any one of those moves might accurately be construed as an attempt to get into her pants. Which he, in his infinite wisdom, had promised wasn’t on this evening’s agenda.

  He yanked his gaze back to the street, his mouth twisting at the irony. He’d had, after all, abundant opportunity in the past to make a move on her. Yet he’d always chosen to pass, for reasons as varied as they were numerous.

  He’d been too busy working. She’d been too busy playing.

  He’d had younger brothers to raise, a business to run, a host of responsibilities. She’d had none.

  He’d preferred his sexual liaisons to be straightforward, a pleasurable exchange between two responsible adults with no strings and no messy complications.

  There’d never been anything uncomplicated about Mallory. Then or now.

  “Gabriel?” Her voice cut through his thoughts. As if on cue, in a quicksilver shift of mood she suddenly sounded serious, the levity of the previous moment gone.

  “What?”

  “Why did you come so see me tonight? Really?”

  “I told you. The check—”

  “No.” Cutting him off, she tucked a knee underneath her and shifted on the seat to face him. “If that was your only purpose you could have dropped the thing in the mail or called to tell me you’d destroyed it. You didn’t have to show up in person.”

  “Okay.” He inclined his head. “You got me. I wanted to make sure you were okay. I told you before that you don’t belong in this neighborhood, and earlier tonight, on the street, you proved my point.”

  She ignored the provocation of that last statement. “All right. But why do you care? Why now, when I’ve been living here for months?”

  “It’s no great mystery, Mallory. Until we ran into each other last week, I didn’t know you needed help. Now I do.”

  “And you feel compelled to provide it?”

  “That’s not exactly how I’d put it, but yes.”

  He heard her breathe in, then carefully exhale. “Is it because of my father? Do you feel guilty for exposing him?”

  For a second he was tempted to dance around the question. After all, as Gabe had personal reason to know, kids made all sorts of excuses for parents, defending behavior that was often indefensible.

  But on this issue, at least, he felt he owed her the truth. “Hell, no,” he said flatly. “You may not want to hear this, but it’s my firm opinion that your father ought to be in prison. Not off living the high life, working on his tan at a lot of other people’s expense.”

  “Oh.”

  Braced as he was for a much more vocal protest, her one-word response caught him off guard. Still, he figured they might as well get past this hurdle now.

  Pulling up to the curb in front of her building, he switched off the engine and turned to face her, “Oh what, Mallory? Oh, I really am the cold-blooded bastard you thought I was?”

  That lush courtesan’s mouth unexpectedly curved up for an instant. “How about, oh, I still don’t get it? Because if you’re not here because of my father and you don’t want sex, then what’s the draw, Gabriel? Why do you care what happens to me?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” He made a note to kick himself later for the whole sex debacle. “We’re friends, or at least, we were—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “We weren’t. Maybe it’s not exactly my area of expertise—” her voice took on that familiar note of self-mockery “—but even I know that friends spend time together, and talk, and know about each other’s dreams and quirks and even some of their secrets. You and I…We were more social acquaintances with a long-standing jones for each other.”

  He should’ve been gratified by her acknowledgment of the attraction between them. So why, instead, did her dispassionate dismissal of a broader connection grate like a handful of sand scrubbed across glass? “There’s more to it than that. But my point is, while your father deserves the worst the system can throw at him, you…you were just an innocent bystander in all this. Yet somehow you wound up taking the hit for him, and no matter how you view it—a miscarriage of justice, a monumental screwup—it never should’ve happened.”

  “So that makes me…what? Collateral damage?”

  If he hadn’t been so caught up in choosing his next words, her utter lack of inflection might have warned him he’d made a major misstep. “Sure, I suppose you could say that. The label isn’t important. What mat
ters is that it’s not acceptable. You shouldn’t have to lose everything while he skates.”

  “And you’re here to fix that?”

  “Yes.” Flashing on her reaction every other time he’d tried to offer his assistance, he thought it wise to add, “If you’ll let me.”

  “I see.” She slid her feet back into her discarded pumps, her face hidden by the gently curling mass of her hair as she leaned forward. “Well, here’s your answer.” Straightening, she swiveled to face him, her eyes dark with something he couldn’t identify—and anger so blatant a blind man couldn’t have missed it. “Go to hell.”

  She snatched up her purse, shoved open the door and had her feet planted squarely on the pavement outside almost before he could decide what to do.

  Almost, but not quite. “I don’t think so.” He was out his door and around the vehicle so fast she didn’t manage to get more than a few feet before he caught up with her.

  “What the hell is your problem!” he demanded, catching her by the elbow and swinging her around.

  “You!” she shot back. “You arrogant, self-satisfied jerk!” Sucking in a breath, she yanked her arm free. “In what universe do you think I’d ever agree to be your pet project?”

  “What?”

  “Either you’re hard of hearing, or just so full of yourself that nothing can penetrate that incredibly thick hide, so let me spell it out. I don’t want your pity or your charity. And I am not, nor will I ever be, some wrong you need to right!”

  “Is that what you think?” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d completely lost his temper, but he could feel it beginning to go. And it seriously pissed him off. He ruled his emotions. They didn’t rule him.

  “Yes!” She started to whirl away, then thought better of it. “And just so there’s no mistake—” she jerked her handbag open, fumbled around for something inside “—I don’t need your damned money, either!” Crumpling the bills that had appeared in her hand, she hurled them at him.

  He didn’t think, he acted. Trained to always take control of an attack, he snatched the money out of the air, wrapped an arm around her waist and yanked her close.