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  His shoulders relaxed. He even smiled.

  When he headed toward his bike, Leandra called to him. “Wouldn’t you rather take the truck? It’s going to be a lot colder at midnight than it is now.”

  “I’ve been cold before.”

  *

  Mary Beth poured her second glass of wine and took one final glance at the cavernous living room and the formal dining room. Tonight, she’d entertain Rico in her kitchen sanctuary. No need for him to check out the place. She had no plans to invite him back again.

  With her wineglass and bottle of merlot in hand, Mary Beth shot an anxious glance at the digital clock on the stove. 7:13. She had the steaks ready to pop on the indoor grill. The baked potatoes had been in the oven since six thirty, the salad tossed and French bread warming. Cabernet breathed in a decanter on the table and chardonnay waited in the fridge, depending upon Rico’s taste in wine. If he preferred beer, she also had a six-pack of Bud chilled.

  She’d orchestrated the evening in her mind a dozen times. She’d heat up the broiler when he walked in, offer him a beverage, and make small talk while the steaks grilled. After dinner, she’d serve coffee, maybe some brandy, and send him on his way. On that timetable, he’d be out of there and the dishwasher loaded by eight o’clock.

  Then why had she been fighting a fluttering in her stomach for the last two hours? Why had she taken such special care with her appearance? And most of all, why did she find him so damn attractive?

  He was gorgeous, that’s why. Fabulous brown eyes, a mouth made for kissing, and a physique that would cause a nun to rethink her final vows.

  “We have nothing in common,” she said to Ruskie, who’d turned up one evening on her doorstep and refused to leave. “Just one horrible mistake.”

  She took a deep draw of her wine and plunked down on her desk chair. Rico deserved an explanation and an apology. She’d made amends in a far more important way than anything she’d say to him tonight, but he’d never know about that.

  She should be rehearsing that conversation in her mind instead of remembering the way his muscles rippled when he raised the axe and sent it crashing against the wood. Her clit buzzed each time she thought of that so kissable mouth. He’d looked ridiculous in his ski mask, yet amazing too, in an odd sort of way. She’d found temporary satisfaction with her hand, but no way did that replace a hot, thick cock.

  She groaned and chugged her wine. For good measure, she chased the wine with a tall glass of iced water. The heat faded from her cheeks. Her breathing became easier. Now she was ready to face Rico.

  *

  Nothing prepared Mary Beth for what she saw when she opened the door. She didn’t see the attitudinal badass who’d stood in her kitchen the previous night. Nor did she see the annihilator of tree trunks. For one long, paralyzing moment, she saw Rico Zanini, defendant, confusion and despair written in his face, eyes sad and disbelieving.

  The vulnerable man she’d betrayed so long ago.

  The moment passed but not without leaving its mark. Her heart raced, her knees trembled. She clutched the doorknob and leaned against the frame for support.

  “Rico, please come in.”

  In one hand, he carried a bottle of wine. In the other, a plastic container with two slices of cake. Beyond him, she saw his motorcycle parked in the middle of the sidewalk, under the shelter of the walkway. How improbable—a motorcycle, cake and wine.

  They both looked down at his boots and the thin layer of mud clinging to the soles, then at the plastic tub that held hers from earlier in the day.

  “No, no, don’t bother. That’s for snow days.” She toed the entrance mat nearer to him. “Just wipe your feet on this.”

  Thank God. It gave her something to say and do besides gape at him.

  She took the cake while he tended to his boots. Oh, yum-yum, Synda’s Black Russian—also one of Mary Beth’s favorites. She wondered if he’d gone to Leandra for counsel, or if she’d coached him unasked.

  “Where do you want me to put this?” he asked, lifting the bottle of wine.

  She started at the sound of his voice. She hadn’t realized he’d followed so closely behind her. Yet she should have known—the fragrance of his leather jacket and aftershave told her he stood near.

  “Um…on the counter. We can open it later.”

  *

  Rico had stopped halfway to Mary Beth’s house, taken off his helmet and stared up at the moon. A clear fresh night, cold but not killer cold. A night that made him think. He knew why he was here and what he had to do.

  Except…except he hadn’t thought Mary Beth would grow into the woman she did. He’d expected red hair, he’d expected freckles. He never expected someone who pushed all of his body’s buttons. He’d spent half his adult life hating her. That hatred defined him. Out of nowhere, slam! His body responded to her the way it had when he was sixteen and the only guy on the block who was still a virgin. Sex was all he thought about then. Making love to Mary Beth Hunter was all he thought about now.

  He knew she didn’t share his feelings. Why would she? She was a successful attorney and could have her pick of men.

  But this afternoon, just for a moment, he would swear he saw desire in her eyes in spite of sweat pouring off him and an axe in his hand.

  With that thought he pulled on his helmet, gunned the engine and drove the last miles to her house.

  He had no trouble finding it, even though the windows were still shuttered. Why in the hell did she need such a large house? She lived alone, except for those fucking cats. From the look of the kitchen, bigger than the house he grew up in, she lived in that one room. Maybe his ma and aunt had been right—women who didn’t marry ended up crazy old ladies who collected cats.

  When Mary Beth opened the door, Rico almost dropped the wine and cake. Instead of baggy sweats, she wore a pair of snug, faded jeans that emphasized every curve of her tight little bottom. Her turtleneck sweater had a diamond-shaped opening about the size of his palm smack in the middle of her chest, exposing two mounds of flesh so white and soft-looking, his fingers itched to touch them.

  His cock stirred. Suddenly he realized that while he stared, she talked. He hadn’t heard a word she said until she toed a worn rubber doormat in his direction and pointed to it.

  He’d been too busy soaking up the scenery and the light, flowery fragrance she wore. The scent tossed a rope around his senses and urged him to follow behind her.

  “What would you like to drink?” she asked after he’d put the wine on the counter and took a step back.

  He’d stood this close to her the other night, but it hadn’t sunk in that she wasn’t as short as he remembered. She came about to his shoulder. His gaze dropped to her sweater and the diamond cutout. Her tiny nipples pushed against the front. He groaned inside and clenched his teeth. He didn’t know how he’d make it through dinner without finding a way to touch her.

  “There’s red wine on the table and I have white chilling,” she said through a tight smile. A blush spread from her throat to her cheeks, proof that her thoughts mirrored his.

  She turned and hurried toward the grill sitting on a low table between the oven and a door he guessed led to a deck.

  “There’s beer in the fridge too,” she said. “Help yourself.”

  Mary Beth heard the snap of the bottle cap behind her while she fussed with the steaks. And Rico’s footsteps while he walked around the kitchen and peeked through the closed French doors separating them from the rest of the house.

  “Lea told me you aren’t a cat person,” she said. “I’ll be glad to give you a tour but I’ve locked the furry side of the family in there. Ruskie’s a terrible pest, especially if he senses someone doesn’t like him.”

  She heard him mutter something that could have been “good” or “I’m sorry”—she couldn’t tell which.

  “What do you like on your salad? I have ranch, bleu cheese and Thousand Island.” She thought it best to keep it simple. She doubted he’d eaten ma
ny gourmet dressings while enjoying the hospitality of the State of New York.

  He surprised her by answering, “Got lemon juice and sugar?”

  She stopped slicing the mushrooms. “Sure, in the pantry. Is that all you use?”

  “That’s all I need.”

  Ten long, silent minutes later, they sat down to the plainest table Mary Beth had ever set. No candles. Everyday plates and flatware, and wineglasses she’d picked up at a discount store when she first moved in. He made no comment, just dug in.

  The steaks turned out amazing, the best she’d ever served, and the baked potatoes light and fluffy. She noticed that he sprinkled lemon juice and sugar on his potato as well as his salad. How odd. Poor thing, prison food must have been worse than she thought.

  “Did they serve lemon on all of your food in…in, you know?”

  He’d been eating almost without pausing for breath. His head shot up at that. She felt a flush rise under the scrutiny of those dark, deep eyes.

  Why, oh why, had she brought up prison? And worse, the cats were lined up on the other side of the glass in the French door, watching every bite they took and begging with silent meows.

  “My mom did. I grew up eating this way. Something wrong with that?”

  Mary Beth reached for her wineglass to drain it. The evening was going worse than she dreaded. Her glass stood empty beside her plate. She’d had three glasses of wine…maybe four. No wonder things were coming out her mouth she didn’t mean to say.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure lemon and sugar make a delicious dressing.”

  “Not really.” He went back to his plate. “You get used to it.”

  He’d said it as if it were an inevitable fact of life. She wondered if that was something he learned at his mother’s knee too. Or perhaps he’d learned to accept the things he couldn’t change to survive.

  Suddenly she wasn’t hungry anymore.

  Over another glass of wine, she watched him clean his plate. She still had no idea whether he liked what she’d served or not.

  She stood and reached for his plate when he laid his fork on the napkin he’d never opened. He stood at the same time and reached for hers. Their hands collided midway across the table.

  Reacting without thinking, she pulled her hand away and grabbed at the edge of the table. She felt warm and a little dizzy, or maybe a little too buzzed. “It’s warm in here, don’t you think?”

  “You better sit down.” He guided her with a gentleness she found startling.

  “I’m fine,” she protested.

  “Let me get those.” He picked up his plate and silverware, and hers, and headed toward the sink. He wrapped the bones and potato skins in the aluminum foil in which she’d baked them, rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher.

  “I owe you an apology, Rico. I’ve had too much wine.”

  After a moment, his expression softened. Maybe he’d been there and done that too at some time in his life, and understood her embarrassment.

  “I know I saw a coffeepot the other night,” he said before handing her a fresh glass of iced water.

  She pointed to the pantry, although coffee was the last thing she wanted. Her nice soft bed would feel heavenly. “It’ll go well with Synda’s cake.”

  Mary Beth sipped her water while Rico prepared the coffee and set out mugs and plates. She wanted a piece of cake like she wanted a sock in the jaw, yet she didn’t refuse the plate he put in front of her. “We’d be more comfortable in the other room, but we have to feed the cats first. If we fill their bowls, we can close them up in here. They’ll like the warmth.”

  “Where’s the food?”

  “See that little plastic trash can? Right next to their bowls? Their food’s inside.”

  He lifted the cover. “At least it’s not that god-awful canned stuff.”

  “Fill all of the bowls about a quarter full and set them in a row near the wood stove. They’re good about eating together.”

  At the sound of their bowls touching the floor, the cats rose to their hind paws and started scratching at the door.

  Eight meowing cats, tails high in the air, raced across the kitchen. They were nose deep in their bowls when Mary Beth closed the door behind Rico. “That way.” She pointed toward the hall that led to the family room. The dim glow from a small table lamp signaled the way.

  At the threshold, Rico’s mouth dropped open. She watched him look around the room, taking in the high beamed ceilings, the stone walls and the wood plank floors. A large bar made from a slab of redwood burl dominated one end of the room, while a billiards table held court at the other end. In between, groupings of hide and leather easy chairs and couches stood in clusters around low tables. The stone fireplace rose three stories, with a twenty-foot-long hearth and an opening tall enough for an adult to stand in comfortably.

  He said nothing, just shook his head slowly. She knew as if she’d read his mind, he had to be comparing this room to the tiny cage he’d lived in for years.

  What had she done, what had she done?

  “Rico, I’m sorry. You have to understand—”

  He turned on her. “Whatta you sorry about? That you’re rich and successful? That you have a house as big as a fucking hotel? I got my hog. It’s paid for. I don’t apologize about that, why should you apologize for this?” He hitched his hands on his hips. “Or are you so fucking embarrassed about what you did to me—or should I say didn’t do—that you can’t even stand yourself?”

  If he’d slapped her, it couldn’t have hurt more. Worse, he was right and she knew it.

  She backed away from him. She could turn tail and run, as she had from that courtroom. Or she could face him, beg him to forgive her, or at least understand why.

  “I owe you so much more than an apology,” she said. “Please give me a chance to help you—”

  “Help me? You’re about eleven fucking years too late for that. Whattaya gonna do? Offer me some money? Hire me to come by and wash your windows, maybe shovel your walks or clean up cat shit?”

  He strode over to her, close enough that the toes of their shoes met. He bent low, until he stood level with her eyes, mouths scant inches apart. “Do you know what it’s like to live in the joint? To spend twenty-four hours a day with someone watching you? Never a single minute alone? Whether you’re pissing, shitting or jerking off, someone’s always watching.” He raised his arm and pointed to the billiards table. “I shared a cell smaller than that fucking table with a goddamned pervert who raped and damn near killed six women. He didn’t know any of them. If they let him out today, he’d rape and try to kill six more.”

  “Rico, please…” She tried to back away from him again. He grabbed her wrists and held on tight.

  “Can you even start to understand how hard it is to sleep on a metal slab with a mattress only two inches thick? Stinking with the sweat and piss of ten of those animals before you? Knowing that if you fall asleep there’s a fifty-fifty chance the motherfucker sharing your cell’s gonna slash your throat or stick a shank in your gut. D’you know what it’s like to sleep no more than ten or fifteen minutes at a time because if you ever let your guard down, you’re gonna wake up dead?”

  Rico tightened the pressure on her wrists. “I did, Mary Beth, I did it for ten fucking years that I’ll never get back. And you—with your fucking cats, and your bar and pool table, and a house big enough for twenty people—could have stopped it. Did that ever bother you? Did you ever think about what was happening to me in those ten years? Or were you too fucking busy picking out paintings and furniture and yuppie cars to think twice about the innocent fucker you sent to prison?”

  She knew he wanted to say more, but the emotion had drained out of him. She saw it in his face, in his eyes that lost their dead look and now shined with tears too long unshed.

  “Rico, please—”

  “Don’t even try, Mary Beth. You had your chance and you looked the other way. There’s nothing you can say I want to hear.” With that he
pushed her aside and strode past her toward the hall.

  This time, anger trumped guilt. “God damn it, Rico Zanini, you stop right now!” she shouted across the room.

  He stopped and turned to face her, his body taut with rage.

  “I listened to what you had to say. By God, you’re going to return the favor.” She pointed to the couch. “Get your ass back here and sit down. Don’t even think of leaving until I’m through telling you the rest of that story.”

  Mary Beth stood there, fists balled, her nails cutting into her palms, frightened and yet angrier than she’d ever been in her life. Everything he said was true. Every rotten thought he’d had of her well deserved. Yet he wasn’t the only one who’d suffered over what had happened in that courtroom. He wasn’t the only one who lived with sleepless nights. What she’d done to harm him ten years ago had made her the woman she was today. She’d made amends a hundred times over for her lack of courage, for her cowardice in bending to the wills of those older and more experienced.

  She’d paid a dear price. She’d gone from one bad relationship to another because she never believed she deserved to be happy, not after what she’d done. So no, she knew nothing about metals beds and shanks and sounds and smells of evil incarnate, but the devil had visited her far too many times. Now it was her turn to put those devils behind her. If she and Rico had to stay locked in this room until the next quake hit and they were swallowed up by the ocean in order to lay their devils to rest, she’d make sure they did.

  Chapter Six

  He straightened his shoulders and slowly clenched and unclenched his fists. She’d seen hatred before. She’d looked into the eyes of murderers who’d kill again without a thought. They frightened and pissed her off at the same time, like now. But she’d never seen such depths of hurt and sorrow mingled with that anger. She’d righted the wrong she’d committed against Rico and had almost moved on. Rico had not. He’d allowed the injustice to fester and control him, to define him.