Sinfully Sweet

The cab screeched to a stop near her building on West 17th in Chelsea, a gently aged brown-stone with rent control. She paid the driver—who hadn’t spoken a word the entire trip—and shoveled herself out of the back seat, gathering her belongings with an unusual carelessness. When the booklet from the reunion fell into the puddle at the curb, she left it, feeling too disconsolate to make the effort. The thing was useless anyway. Although many of her classmates had provided lists of degrees, childrens’ ages, home and e-mail addresses, for Devlin there was nothing. Only an old senior photo and a name.

Devlin Brandt.

Halfway through the evening, she’d taken one of the keepsake pens off a crepe-ribboned table and scrawled MIA? beside his name. At the tail end of the party, having finally worked up some punch-drunk courage, she’d gone around asking about him.

The majority hadn’t seen Devlin since graduation day, when he’d arrived halfway through the ceremony on a dinged-up Indian motorcycle and then taken off with a diploma tucked in the front of his jacket and Misty “Most likely to become a Hooters girl” Michaelson whooping it up behind him.

Those who knew Devlin, or had heard rumors of him, had two words for Mackenzie: Stay away.

He was into bad stuff, they said. She asked what “bad stuff” meant and got back vague mutterings about shady characters, criminal operations and stolen goods. He’d spent at least a year in prison for burglary, someone claimed, one guy whose car dealership had gone under, admitted that he’d run into Devlin at a Yonkers pawnshop where the owner was known for being less than scrupulous about the goods he handled. Apparently the Rolex watches and diamond dinner rings collected from suburbanites who’d missed a payment on their SUVs were just for show. The real action took place under the counter. And Devlin was in on it.

Or maybe not. No one seemed to know for sure.

Mackenzie had finally tracked down Louie Scheck, who’d lived next door to Devlin’s parents. Louie said that his mom said that Mr. and Mrs. Brandt had washed their hands of Devlin after years of trouble had culminated in a prison sentence. He was rotten, plain and simple. Being a nice girl, Mackenzie would stay away if she knew what was good for her.

Stay away.

Wise advice, she supposed, but there was no need for it. She’d never even had the chance to get close.

Mackenzie jumped up onto the sidewalk as the cab drove away, spraying dirty rainwater on her shoes and hose. She tilted her head back, meaning to let out a deep sigh. A short huff was all she managed. Between the panty shaper and her underwire bra, she hadn’t taken a deep breath all night. You were really in sorry shape when you couldn’t even sigh.

The rain increased, pattering her face and running cold down the back of her exposed neck. A streak of mascara came off on the back of her hand when she swiped at her eyes.

Right. The perfect end to a perfect evening.

She trudged up the stoop, sliding her keys from the skimpy evening purse which was on a chain, slung over her shoulder. Raindrops dripped from the ivy that grew in a thick ruff over the lintel. The slap of footsteps running up the street made her turn, but before she could blink the blurry wetness from her eyes she was slammed from behind by a large, wet male. Whump. He had her up against the door.

Terror ripped through Mackenzie. She opened her mouth to scream, and the assailant clamped a hand over the lower half of her face. She bit at his palm, squirming against the pressure of his body plastered to hers.

Instep. She stomped.

Rib cage. She elbowed.

Scream! Filled with frantic strength, she wrenched her face away, gulped air and let out a howl that was immediately cut off when he slapped his hand over her mouth again.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” He panted heavily in her ear. “Promise.”

As if she believed that. Her idea of “hurt” and his were miles apart.

She went against instinct and forced herself to stop struggling, as though she were mollified by his words. She was thinking groin shot, if only she could get a leg free. The painful high heels she’d been dying to take off might yet turn out to be a smart purchase.

“Put the key in the door. We’re going inside.”

She made a muffled sound of protest against his hand. He didn’t wait for her to comply, just pried the keys out of her fingers and tried each one in the lock until he found the key that opened the vestibule door.

Her mind raced. Defense class had taught her to never let an attacker get you alone. There was no way she was going into her apartment with a stranger.

He muttered something that ended in “Hurry,” and shoved open the door, propelling her inside. His arms were around her waist like iron bars. She slumped, making herself awkward and heavy in hope that his grip would loosen and she could get away. One of her neighbors would hear if she let out a good, hearty scream.

The plan didn’t work. He jammed his thigh between her legs and boosted her body across the small lobby. The shock of the contact froze her reactions for an instant. Three steps and they were at the door. Her jagged thoughts splintered. It was just her luck to be in 1A. But how had he known that?

Mackenzie renewed her fight when he moved his arm to thrust her key into the lock. She got one hand free and blindly reached back to rake her nails across his face. Eyeball gouge.

“Damn, that hurt,” he growled, shoving his face tight up against the side of her head. She flailed. “Stop it. I won’t hurt you.”

His breath was hot on her face. His mouth—

The feel of his mouth moving against her cheek was horrifying. Again, her attempt at a scream was smothered by his hand. She bucked violently, trying to throw them both off their feet. All that did was send her headfirst into the door. It banged open and suddenly they were inside.

He let her go. A panicked cry tore from her throat. “Help!”

The door slammed, cutting off her best chance to alert a neighbor. Instead, she plunged into her dark front hallway.

His voice, roughened but soft, came from behind her. “Mackenzie, please…”

He knew her name! Somehow, that was worse. The attack was personal now.

She bolted.

The living room was on the right, but she ran past it, not wanting to be cornered in a room without an exit. The bed and bathroom were at the end of the hall. The bath was closer but she veered at the last instant into her bedroom, where there was a phone. And a window and door onto the enclosed courtyard.

She tried to slam the bedroom door behind her, but he was already standing in the jamb, holding it open. She had a fleeting glimpse of a battered face before she whirled away. Her eyes went first to the back door—locked. Was she desperate enough to throw herself through the window? It was too dark to see much, but suddenly she was confused. As if…

“Mackenzie. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Sorry? The familiarity in his voice was eerie, but she wasn’t about to confront him. Shuddering, she rushed to the window. He must be insane. A stalker.

The window stuck, the wooden sashes swollen by the damp weather. She was gasping, pushing futilely at the double-hung window, when the intruder’s hand closed over her shoulder.

In a last-ditch effort, she dove onto the bed, stretching for the phone on the nightstand. He crawled on top of her, dragging her hands away. “No,” she sobbed. “Don’t—”

“Mackenzie, it’s me.”

The calmness of his hushed voice reached her. She stopped struggling. “Wh-who?”

He let up a little, and she was able to turn her head. Lightning flashed, illuminating the room for an instant. She saw his face for the first time. It was dreadfully familiar.

“D-Devlin?” She sucked in a shuddery gasp, unable to catch her breath. Her mind spun with disbelief. “Devlin Brandt?”

He eased his hold on her, but didn’t let go entirely. They lay flat on the bed, him on top of her twisted body, with his hands cuffing her wrists on either side of her head. Face-to-face.

The moment was surreal. No more than fifteen minutes ago, she had been staring at his senior-class photo in the reunion booklet. Longing for him. That Devlin was a brash kid with a wise-ass grin and long-lashed green eyes, whose silky brown hair had a chestnut sheen.

This man was not the same, even if she discounted the scrapes and swelling of his beat-up face. His eyes were hardened, maybe mean. His hair was dark and stringy. There were hollows in his cheeks, stubble on his jaw, a thin scar above his lip. But he was Devlin. Her vision blurred. One image superimposed over the other. She shut her eyes. Opened them again.

Devlin Brandt. Unbelievable! “What the—”

“I’m sorry,” he said at the same time.