It’s weird, the way a woman can go her whole life
without ever really seeing herself. And the things that
can flash through her mind when she’s come face to face
with a knife-welding punk out to snatch her purse, and
end her life.
He was high; Alison had spent two years giving out
Methadone at a clinic and she could spot high easily
enough. Basically that meant her life wasn’t worth the
twenty dollars she had in her wallet—not to this guy.
Yet, in that moment—when seconds stretched out to a
crawl—it wasn’t any odd sentimental moment from
childhood that rose to her memory, no poignant moment
spent in a lover’s arms.
Instead, she could see her reflection—as she had looked
just twenty minutes before she had left the house to run
to the bookstore—her nondescript brown hair pulled back
in a loose ponytail, her glasses sliding down her nose,
her long narrow face pale and listless.
The clothes she had on were baggy and simple—jeans and a
flannel shirt—covered by a serviceable jacket of black
wool. They hung on a frame so skinny, it could have
belonged to a teenaged boy, not a twenty-six-year-old
woman.
And that was what she saw.
Herself. Miserable, pathetic, lifeless.
Dimly, she heard footsteps and a shout.
With a jolt, reality snapped back into focus and her
eyes, hidden behind huge plastic frames and lenses,
narrowed, her mouth tightened into a grim line. She
looped one wrist through the purse strap and drew the
other one down, cocked back, the ball of her hand
driving up—a trick she had learned long ago, back when
she had still lived with her folks and one very
protective older brother.
To her surprise, the boy—God, was he even
seventeen?—went crashing down, shouting with shock. She
was certain she had felt cartilage crunch under her
hand, but the pain of that wouldn’t faze somebody so
obviously strung out. She drew her foot back, praying
for forgiveness, and landed a kick square in his
unprotected crotch.
That drew a howl from him…and a vicious curse. She
dropped into a crouch she didn’t even know she
remembered, drawing her hands up, eyes darting around
for a weapon.
But it wasn’t necessary.
A body hurtled out from nowhere, tackling the boy who
had rushed to his feet, taking him down. A large hand
clipped the boy across the face, stunning him. Alison
heard the clank of metal, followed by the quiet snick of
handcuffs latching.
Her body had started to quiver and it took a long time
to realize the voice addressing her was calling her by
name. It took even longer to realize that voice was
familiar.
Large hands closed over her shoulders and an irate voice
demanded, “Girl, have you lost your mind?”
Slowly her lids lowered, then lifted once more and her
gaze moved up, training on that face, her ears homing in
on the rough, angry voice. It clicked and she smiled a
dazed, rather dreamy smile.
“Why, Alexander O’Malley, how nice to see you,” she
murmured as her body went from subtle shivering to
outright quaking in a matter of heartbeats. Her own
heart started to kick, pounding heavily against the wall
of her chest, causing her breath to catch in her throat.
His dark brown hair spilled onto his forehead, falling
into his chocolate-brown eyes as he glared down at her
in unsuppressed rage. His mouth—that sexy, sexy mouth
she had always wanted one taste of—was grim and tight,
his lean, tanned face stark with anger.
Her mind felt oddly disconnected as she stared at him,
head cocked. Vicious, furious curses drew her attention
away from Alex, but the angry narcotics detective barely
even glanced at the struggling boy at his feet.
“Little idiot,” he snapped out, giving her one final
shake before drawing a cell phone from his pocket. She
barely heard him barking into the phone. Instead, Alison
focused on the battered boy who lay at their feet,
moaning pitifully, crying and struggling to get up and
away. Alex’s feet were braced on either side of him and
his glittering dark-brown gaze locked on the boy’s face.
Alison’s eyes were locked on the boys face too, widening
as she realized some of the marks on him had come from
her—the meekest, mildest woman ever to stroll through
southern Indiana.
A warm hand closed on her face and she felt her chin
being lifted. Staring into Alex’s eyes, the fog that had
started to envelope her brain thickened. “I think I
might have broken his nose,” she said calmly.
“You little idiot, he was about to slit your damn
throat,” Alex growled. “Why didn’t you just give him
your fucking purse”
Her eyes dropped to the object in question and her lips
pursed. “I really don’t know.” A frown marred her face
as she looked back up at him and said quietly, “It
wouldn’t have mattered though. He would have killed me
no matter what I did. And we both know it, Alex.”
Alex paced the small office, watching the silent little
figure huddled in the chair. Every now and then, Alison
Ryan would sip from the cup of coffee she held, but for
the most part, her eyes remained locked on the wall in
front of her. He seriously doubted she was seeing
anything, but he had to admit, she was much calmer than
he ever would have thought.
It wouldn’t have mattered though. He would have killed
me no matter what I did. And we both know it, Alex.
Damn it. Fuck.
The bitch of it all? She was right. The boy was so
fucking strung out, he would have killed her and it
wouldn’t have fazed him. Oh, he would have been
sorry—once it was too late.
Too late—once Alex have had to go see quiet little Allie
one last time, right before her coffin was closed. She
had saved her own neck. A sick, hot little ball of
nausea slid through his gut and Alex clenched his jaw.
Fuck. He had known her since she was a kid. There was no
way to describe the rage he had felt when he had raced
upon the scene and seen the teenager flashing that
knife, so close to her white neck.
But she had handled it. Who would have thought it?
Alison Ryan. She was such a, well, mouse. It wasn’t the
nicest thing to say about his best friend’s baby sister,
but what else could he say? It was the truth.
Her pale little face was a bit paler than normal, but
nothing that was worrying him.
The signs of shock had faded and she was calm. Geez, how
long had he known her? Going on twenty-five years now.
And he didn’t think he had ever seen her upset. Alex
seriously doubted she had the passion it took to get
upset. So why was it surprising that she wasn’t upset
now? Hysterical, even?
Why, Alexander O’Malley, how nice to see you, she had
said, pushing her glasses up and staring at him
owlishly, like she hadn’t almost been killed.
Little fool, he thought. For the fifteenth time.
Her ponytail had been tidied at some point, pulled back
tightly from her face. Every now and then, her eyes
would glance at the plain watch on her wrist, but she
still hadn’t said much. “Why don’t I call your brother
to come get you?”
In her soft, hesitant voice, she said, “Mike’s out of
town until next Saturday.”
Alex pressed his fingers against his eyes and muttered,
“Tahiti. I forgot.”
Forgotten that he had stood up for Mike in his wedding
only four days earlier? Alison smiled slightly. She
didn’t doubt it; Alex looked strained. And she doubted
it had anything to do with what might have happened
earlier. She set aside the half empty coffee cup and
stood, folding her arms across her chest. “I can call a
cab,” she said. “I just need to get back to my car,
anyway.”
A cab. He stared at her, his pen falling from his hand.
A cab? After damn near getting her throat slit, she was
going to call a fucking cab? Mike would kill me. Shit,
I’d kill me. “No,” he said slowly, shaking his head and
lowering his gaze back to the report. “No cab.”
“I don’t mind,” she said softly. “It’s late and—”
“No cab, Allie,” he said in a steely voice. “I’ll take
you. I’ve got a few things to finish up and then I can
take you home.”
He scowled. Home? Alone? “Is there a friend you could
call? Go stay with?”
She frowned at him quizzically. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you almost got your throat slit?” he snapped
and then mentally kicked his ass as her eyes fell away
and her mouth twitched.
His date had called and cancelled at the last minute,
which explained why he had been in the area. He had
stopped to pick up a book and on the way out had seen
Allie’s car. He had almost turned around to go find her,
to see if he could talk her into grabbing a bite with
him, thinking it was better than going home alone.
Actually, even though it would end up without any sex,
it was better than a date. Once you got her talking,
Allie was adorable, funny, sharp-witted. And
unmistakable.
He would have seen her in the store.
She hadn’t been there. The worry hadn’t even had a
chance to settle in his gut when he heard the scuffle
and the muttered curse from the small alley between the
old bookstore and the run-down grocery and had
known—just known—that the little twit was getting in
trouble.
So instead of settling down with his book, dragging the
shy kid sister of his best friend out for some food, or
looking up another date, he was writing up a police
report because the idiot was too stupid to realize it
wasn’t safe to walk from one store to the other—not in
this neighborhood. Allie was a cop’s sister, for crying
out loud. She should know better.
“I’m sorry. Look, just give me a few minutes to wrap a
few things up and then I can take you home, okay? Hang
around a little while. You don’t need to be alone just
yet, okay?”
She nodded, slowly, hesitantly, and lowered herself back
into the chair. Alex went to his desk and finished
typing up the report. As he whipped the paper from the
old typewriter he preferred, his eye caught sight of a
file.
Hot damn. About time, he thought as satisfaction slid
through his gut.
Eyes gleaming, he flipped it open. This was it, all
right. What he had been waiting for. Within five minutes
of poring over the files, he had completely forgotten
Alison was there.
After another thirty-five minutes had passed, Alison
realized he had forgotten her. Biting back a sigh, she
rose and made her way to the door on silent feet.
Glancing back over her shoulder, she released the sigh.
She was so forgettable. She knew damn well if she had
been a criminal under arrest, or any other woman, she
would never had made it out of that tiny office without
Alex’s sharp eyes catching her.
But her? Quiet, mousy little Alison Ryan? He didn’t so
much as glance up as she slid through the door. He still
had his nose buried in the file as she made her way to
the woman occupying the huge desk up front. It hurt, but
Alex had always had the ability to hurt her. Since she
had spent the majority of her life dreaming about him,
it was no surprise. At first, they had been the sweet
romantic dreams of a girl, him sweeping her away, vowing
to love her forever.
He was so damn sexy, so adorable, so hot…but it was more
than that. Not that being six-feet-four with thick,
curly brown hair, melted-chocolate eyes, and a flashing
white smile didn’t help. And his shoulders, that wide
chest…tapering down to a flat, muscled belly and a tight
ass that filled out a pair of jeans like nothing she had
ever seen.
And of course there was always the front view—long,
powerful legs, muscled thighs, a sizeable bulge that
Allie eyed when she knew he wasn’t looking. Which was
often—he never really looked at her. Oh, yeah, there was
a lot about Alex’s looks to fuel her dreams.
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