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Great reviews for she drives me crazy

“Good ole boy attitudes and laid back charm make this splendid tale a local delicacy. Author Leslie Kelly brings wit, humor and exuberance to this story of one woman’s reluctant attempt to go home again.”

—Romantic Times

“I know this is only a March release but I think I’ve already found my favorite book of the year in Leslie Kelly’s She Drives Me Crazy. This is such an outstanding book on so many levels that it’s hard to mention them without giving away one of the many surprises found between the pages. A Recommended Read.”

—Fallen Angel Reviews

“Spend an evening of pleasure and fun, and treat yourself to an intensely emotional, funny, spine-tingling, and well-written book. A Perfect 10!”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Sexy, funny and a little outrageous, is a must read!”

—New York Times bestselling author Carly Phillips

“Leslie Kelly’s books are the perfect blend of sass and class. Her cheeky style makes her one of the strongest voices in romance today.”

—New York Times bestselling author

Vicki Lewis Thompson “Leslie Kelly is a future star of romance.”

—New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber to Publishers Weekly

More rave reviews for the books of Leslie Kelly!

“Ms. Kelly never fails to deliver a captivating story.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Top Pick! Leslie Kelly introduces characters you’ll

love spending time with; explores soulmates

you’ll dream about; and a hero to die for.”

—Romantic Times on Naturally Naughty

“Entertaining is just too tame a word.

This is pure reading pleasure.”

—The Romance Reader on Night Whispers

“Leslie Kelly writes with a matchless combination

of sexiness and sassiness that makes

every story a keeper.”

—Fallen Angel Reviews

“Kelly tells a high-energy story and

delivers a satisfying read.”

—All About Romance on Killing Time

“Leslie Kelly writes hot, steamy stories with lots

of humor and tons of romance thrown in.”

—Romance and Friends

She’s Got the Look
Leslie Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To my cousin, Louis Smith, and all his pals from the

1^st Marine Expeditionary Force…you’re all heroes.

To my girlfriends, past and present, who’ve always

been there for the laughing, griping, celebrating,

crying, plotting, whining and wine. Most especially

Jill, Brenda, Julie, Karen, Janelle, Camille and

Roxanne. Life wouldn’t be the same without you.

And to my hubby, Bruce…you’ll always be number

one on my list. Just above Hugh Jackman.

SHE’S GOT THE LOOK

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Six Years Ago

“EVERY WOMAN NEEDS a list of men she’ll have sex with, no questions asked, if she ever gets the chance.”

Amazingly, despite her friend’s outrageous comment, Melody Tanner managed to avoid spewing the mouthful of margarita she’d just sipped. She stared at Tanya Williams, one of her bridesmaids, who cocked an unrepentant brow. The two additional women at the table—her other closest friends—snorted and laughed.

Since they were sitting in a crowded Mexican restaurant, and since Tanya was such an attention getter, anyway, with her beautiful ebony skin, striking features and imposing height, she didn’t figure there was much chance the comment had gone unheard by those around them. But she cast a quick glance anyway.

Nope. Definitely not unheard. The pudgy guy at the next table looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. The owner of the place, who always watched them, was keeping an extra close eye, as well.

Oblivious to the attention, Tanya added, “Married, single, in a relationship or not, a woman’s gotta have a go-for-it list.” She narrowed her eyes. “Especially if she’s stupid enough to get married at twenty-one.”

“Lovely idea,” said Rosemary, her maid of honor. “A get-out-of-adultery-free card.” Rosemary’s lyrical Southern accent could make anything sound elegant. Even a sex list.

“You’re both high,” Melody muttered before taking another sip of her drink, not taking offense at Tanya’s comment about her age. Her friend had made her opinion very clear on that matter. As had everyone else.

“Come on,” Tanya said. “You’re not married yet. Be honest, there have got to be at least five guys you’d leap on if you had the chance.”

Paige, her final bridesmaid, interrupted. “She probably doesn’t need a sex list.” Paige made up for her lack of height by speaking about three decibels louder than anyone else, so they were almost certainly being overheard now. “Face it, Mel’s probably on the lists of half the men in this country.”

Melody wrinkled her nose. “The blond twit in the swimsuit edition might be. But I’m not her anymore, remember?”

No, she wasn’t. She’d gotten as far away from her former career as she could in the two years since she’d shocked everyone—especially her mother—and quit modeling. She’d stopped coloring her reddish-brown hair blond, stopped starving herself to keep slim, stopped constantly traveling with no friends close by, no family.

No family…well, you couldn’t really miss what you’d never had, could you? Her mother had been family in only the most technical sense and she had no idea who her father was. So, to her, family was a fairly loosely defined word.

The three other women sitting around this table with her had been her real family—her chosen family—for a very long time. Rosemary, Tanya and Paige were the sisters she’d never had, the ones who’d supported her when she’d walked away from the job her mother had thrust on her as a baby.

Her mother, on the other hand, had stuck around just long enough to make sure Melody wouldn’t change her mind. Once she’d accepted that—and realized the money that had supported them was going to stop rolling in—she’d married a foreign designer and moved to England.

She’d sent a Crock-Pot for Mel’s upcoming wedding. It had a European plug. That pretty much summed up Mother.

But it was okay. Melody had been dealing with her mother’s less-than-maternal instincts for years. Melody had her friends. She had a normal life. She was finally going to pursue the passion she’d never gotten to explore since she’d always been in front of a camera: she planned to work behind one.

And tomorrow, to make things perfect, she’d have another new member of her chosen family. A husband. Her marriage to a nice, smart, nonglamorous dentist would be the dot on the exclamation point as she renounced the first two decades of her life.

“Well, if you’re making a Men Most Wanted list, I want to make one, too,” said Paige. She bent under the table to dig into her purse, until all Mel could see of her were the puffy, light brown curls on the top of her head. When she came back up, she was holding a pen and a small notebook. “Now, Mel goes first since she’s the one getting married. Tonight’s her last night to do this…since it’d be tacky to make a list of men you want to have sex with after you’re married, right?” She glanced at her friends, looking for confirmation.

At the table next to them, the pudgy old man began choking on a tortilla chip. Or his tongue.

“Turn the volume down, girl,” Tanya said. “And let me do it, your writing’s awful.” Grabbing the notebook, Tanya looked at Mel. “Okay, let’s do your sex list. Tell us everything. After all, who can you share your deepest fantasies with if not us?”

Melody glanced around the room. “Uh, half of Savannah?”

Tanya leaned in. “We won’t tell. We’re your best friends.”

“Yes, you are,” she murmured, silently thanking them for their support. For being here when they all thought she was making a mistake. For loving her as much as she loved them.

The four of them were an unlikely group—Rosemary, an elegant blonde and a member of one of Savannah’s wealthiest families. Paige, the loud, giggly one who discarded jobs like some people discarded tissues. Tanya, the nearly six-feet-tall African-American who was such a perfect foil to Rosemary’s spoiled Southern belle act.

Then there was Melody, whose face had been plastered on baby-food jars as an infant, whose famous diaper commercials had become a pop-culture reference. The one who’d hammed it up on a bunch of kiddie TV shows, and whose teenage butt had filled out the curves of designer jeans. The one who smiled to show sparkling teeth and cried to sell booboo medicine and who’d landed a spot in a swimsuit issue at seventeen.

Most importantly, Mel realized, she was the one who’d kept her most valued friendships alive by winning one battle against her mother: she’d insisted they have a real home in Savannah. Which was why Paige, Tanya and Rosemary had been there for every major event in her life. Like the one tomorrow. Her wedding. To nice, handsome, considerate Dr. Bill Todd of Atlanta.

The only man she’d ever have sex with again.

Grabbing for her margarita, she drained the glass. Then she reached for the pitcher, suddenly wondering if twenty-one really was too young to give up sex with every man in the world but one. Almost without thinking about it, she mumbled, “Brad Pitt.”

Tanya snorted. “Oh, please, be a little original. If that man had sex with every woman who wanted him, he’d have to be on an intravenous Viagra drip with Spanish fly on the side.”

“I thought this was my fantasy list.”

Paige agreed with Tanya. “Fantasy, but with a shot of reality. Still, I suppose if a man knew you were the Luscious Lingerie Peacock Feather Girl you could get—”

“Ugh, don’t remind me!” Mel snapped. “People still ask me about that stupid one-of-a-kind bra-and-panty set. I would burn it, but I have a feeling it could fund my retirement.”

She’d only done one photo shoot for Luscious Lingerie, yet it seemed that’s how most of male America was going to remember her. As the Peacock Feather Girl. Funny, that particular job—which she hadn’t wanted to do in the first place—was what had made her decide to quit her former profession. Her mother-manager had insisted the exposure would be wonderful. In Melody’s opinion, the exposure had been nearly X-rated. Only if she wanted to be a porn star would the Luscious Lingerie shoot have been a wise move. Tanya had compared it to Shirley Temple posing for Penthouse after she’d gotten off the Good Ship Lollipop.

After the catalog had come out, she’d been stalked by so many men she’d had to hide out in her apartment for months. But hearing a fan say how proud he was that he’d walked in on his twelve-year-old son having his first yank-and-pull session while holding the photo of Mel in the peacock ensemble had been the last straw. Being a pinup girl for prepubescent boys to get off on was gross to the nth degree.

That’d been the moment she’d decided to quit. And finally—thankfully—she’d begun feeling she could go out without people whispering about her. The hair-color change had been a big help. So had her co-ed wardrobe and normal-person lifestyle.

“I think I’d rather be remembered for almost anything else,” she said, shaking her head. Maybe as the three-year-old running to the bathroom with her hands frantically clutching her training pants. Or, gads, as the scrub-faced teen who sang the praises of a certain brand of tampons. Like at age fifteen, she’d wanted the whole world thinking about her being on her period!

Still, they’d be better than the Peacock Feather Girl.

“I know,” Paige said. “But what I meant was, the lingerie model might have had a shot. Movie stars, however, are not in the future of Mrs. Bill the Dentist from Atlanta.”

Melody sipped again, trying to laugh at Paige’s words. Deep inside, however, she wasn’t laughing. She was wincing.

She loved Bill. She felt sure she did. He was the first man who hadn’t treated her like an object, who’d supported her decision to change her life. Marriage to him would be perfect.

So will the sex.

That was when she figured out what was really bothering her about this list thing. It was bizarre to think about having sex with a stranger—even jokingly—when she hadn’t had it with her fiancé. Bill was old-fashioned and wanted to wait.

Oh, God, what if we just don’t click in bed?

Forcing the traitorous thought away, she said, “So it’s my fantasy list, but I don’t get to say who’s on it?”

“There just have to be some ground rules,” Tanya announced.

“Why, Tanya, honey, I thought you never paid any attention to rules,” Rosemary said, sounding amused.

“First of all,” Tanya said, ignoring Rosemary, “we each need to write down copies of all four lists and hold on to them so we can keep an eye out for each other’s men.”

Paige nodded. “Good idea. And the men should be improbable—not impossible. What fun is having a fantasy if there’s not a teeny chance of it happening? It’s like buying a lottery ticket when you know you have better odds of getting hit by a low-flying seven forty-seven than winning. But you do it anyway because somebody’s gotta win.”

Melody wasn’t convinced. “This is only a joke, right? So who cares if I put Brad Pitt on there?”

Tanya blew out an impatient breath. “Of course it’s just for fun. We know you’re not a hootchie mama who’d hook up with a dude because he’s on some list. But don’t you sometimes like to wonder ‘what if?’ What fun is wondering ‘what if’ if there’s never a chance in a million years that it’ll happen?”

“Hootchie mama?” Rosemary rolled her eyes. “Really, Tanya, you’re so…descriptive.”

“Up yours,” Tanya said sweetly. She lifted the pen. “Now, Mel, your list?”

Nibbling on her lip for a second, Mel thought about it. Thankfully, the margaritas were finally kicking in. Besides, these were her best friends and, like Tanya had said, it was just silly fun. No way would any of them really jump into bed with a man at first sight. Well…maybe Rosemary, who, to be honest, had a more-than-active libido. But probably not.

Tapping her index finger on her cheek, she came up with what she thought they’d find an acceptable choice. “Jonathan Rhodes.”

“Ooh, our hunky new congressman?” Paige said.

“What can I say? I had to admire his guts with the sexy way he said his slogan.” She lowered her voice and did a bad Austin Powers impression. “I will take you with me to Washington, baby.”

He hadn’t done the baby part, but it was implied. Every time she’d heard it, Mel had given reluctant credit to the guy for appealing to female voters, who were obviously supposed to ignore the second half of that sentence and vote for him on innuendo.

The others nodded their approval, so Melody added another name—of a local guy who’d been making a name for himself on the PGA tour. His preferences meant he wasn’t much of a possibility, but he did have a cute smile. And a decent backswing.

“You know, honey, that sweet-looking man is probably not out of the realm of possibility,” Rosemary pointed out. “I bet he’d let you handle his putter any old time you asked him.”

“I hear he’s gay.”

“Ahh.” Rosemary nodded, not doubting Melody’s infamous sources, who’d kept them all in-the-know in the old days.

“Isn’t that cheating if he’s gay?” Paige asked indignantly.

“You said improbable. Not impossible. Besides, this is for fun, right? I don’t have to be too realistic. Even if he is gay, he’s still more likely than Brad Pitt.” Then, thinking of someone else, she added the name of a local TV reporter. “Drake Manning.”

Paige wrinkled her nose. “Slimy.”

That was surprising coming from Paige, who was, to be honest, the nicest one of their group. “You think?”

She nodded. “His hair never moves. I think you could hit it with a sledgehammer and it’d bounce right back into place.”

Tanya harrumphed. “It’s Mel’s list. You can put nothing but fluffy-haired heterosexuals on yours but it’s not your turn.”

“Sorry,” Paige said, looking sheepish. “Go on, Mel.”

Melody continued to think, but it was tough. Eliminating movie stars cut out about eighty percent of the men she’d ever fantasized about. Frankly, she’d never had much time for men. Her few sexual experiences before her chaste fiancé had been on-the-run affairs with an ambitious photographer who wanted to take her picture more than he’d wanted to take her. And then there’d been a male model who made friends with every mirror he met. That was it.

She sighed. “Lately my only fantasies have been about the chocolate volcano cake at Chez Jacques. I’m dying for some, but one bite’ll make my butt bulge out of my wedding gown.”

Tanya grunted, probably because she was thin as a rail and ate like a linebacker. Unlike Melody, who had been taking note of every morsel she consumed since her ninth birthday when her mother had given her an electronic calorie counter instead of the Hello Kitty play set she’d asked for.

“My father knows the chef at Chez Jacques,” Rosemary said. “His name’s not Jacques, it’s Charlie.”

“Okay, Charlie the chef,” Mel said. “He’s fourth. A man who makes art out of chocolate must be good with his hands.”

Then there was one slot left. One more fantasy guy. One more traitorous thought of another man before she ended the naughty game and focused on her fiancé. Her reality.

Draining the rest of her margarita, she contemplated naming whoever had invented fat-free cheese curls, if only to balance things out with the chocolate guy. The words were on her lips when suddenly the big-screen TV over the bar caught her eye. Or, rather, the news segment playing on it did.

She couldn’t hear well, but she didn’t have to. She knew the story. Everyone was talking about the Georgia hero who’d rescued some orphans in a third-world country. A photographer had captured the amazing moment, right in the heat of battle, and the picture had graced the cover of Time magazine last week.

It was the magazine cover that filled the screen right now as the Savannah station picked up on the Georgia-boy-done-good angle. Melody stared, unable to tear her eyes away from the haunting image. The thick-armed marine—strikingly handsome even while covered with grime and streaked with soot—was heroism personified. In one arm, he cradled a baby while, with the other, he braced an older child against his side. A tiny pair of hands and a little tear-streaked face peering above his shoulder said there was a third youngster clinging to his back.

The soldier’s dusty face was grim with resolve, his body reportedly wounded yet still so strong. The taut cords in his neck spoke of adrenaline, anger and battle—all so stark against the tenderness with which he held the children. Behind him was the outline of a burning building, orange flames merging with streaks of light that could only have been mortar fire.

But it was the eyes that got to her. The dark brown eyes, full of determination, emotion. Anger and mourning. Eyes that said he had seen too much and been cut too deeply for someone as young as he appeared to be.

His image burned itself into her brain, remaining there long after the news segment had ended and the picture had disappeared.

“Mel? You okay?” Paige asked.

She nodded slowly. Then, without having to give it another thought, she whispered, “Move everyone on the list down one.”

Melody didn’t even know the guy’s name or where he lived. Or even if he’d make it back from his next mission in whatever war-ravaged country he was in now.

She wanted him. Passionately. Unequivocally. Undeniably.

“Marine hero on Time magazine. He’s in first place,” she murmured, still visualizing his face.

There was no doubt in her mind that if she ever met the man with the haunting brown eyes—which had seemed to stare directly at her from the cover of the magazine—he’d be absolutely impossible to resist. He was larger than life, a once-in-a-lifetime fantasy man. A hero.

And now, the number-one guy on her Men Most Wanted list.

CHAPTER ONE

Present Day

THE REDHEAD WITH the camera was spying on him again.

Nick Walker glanced into his rearview mirror and saw the woman skulking around the corner of the church across the square. Every once in a while, she lifted the big camera that hung from one shoulder, swinging it in front of her face to snap off a shot of the trees. The birds. The sky. The church.

All of which was to hide her real photographic subject. Him.

He sighed deeply, shaking his head, wondering how long he could wait—and how far he could let her go—before his cover was blown. Not too much longer, that was for sure.

He hadn’t figured on going unnoticed when he’d started this undercover assignment a couple of days ago. Nobody dressed in his ratty clothes, with the shaggy beard, and two-days-past-needing-a-shower hair wouldn’t be looked at in old Savannah. Not to mention the car. It was a standard, city-issued, undercover P.O.S—Piece Of Shit—the color showing through the rust falling somewhere between puce and putrid.

But the cover was still a good one, considering the eclectic nature of the population in this area. There were just as likely to be panhandlers as millionaires moseying around some of the city’s famous squares. This getup was noticeable, but quickly forgotten by the busy residents who really didn’t want to think too much about how the “other half” lived.

So yeah, he’d been prepared for some attention. What he hadn’t expected was a frigging Nancy Drew out with her camera, snapping clandestine shots of a suspected bad guy and his license plate. She was about as clandestine as a tank.

“Lady, go home,” he pleaded softly, willing the woman to retreat into the building where she’d recently moved. The building where he was supposed to be conducting this stakeout.

That’d been the plan, anyway, which made the woman’s nosiness even more aggravating. His partner, Dex Delaney, was involved with the daughter of the building’s owner. Dex had felt sure his girlfriend, Rosemary, could arrange to let them use the building. It would have been perfect—discreet, vacant. An ideal place to stake out the first-floor apartment in the building across the street where a suspected drug trafficker resided.

Then, after Nick had grown in a beard and scavenged clothes from Goodwill, the ax had fallen. Rosemary’s father had refused, saying he’d rented the building to a family friend in need. Considering Rosemary’s social circles, the woman probably needed a place to stay so her mansion could be painted.

One thing he hadn’t needed was to have his stakeout made ten times tougher because of a rich woman’s whim. “Why the hell couldn’t she have moved in next month?” he muttered, still frustrated by the change in plans that had him sitting here on a sweltering ninety-five-degree day in a car that smelled like the last ninety-five men who’d been in it.

Sometimes he really didn’t like his job.

“But not often,” he admitted to himself.

Most times, he loved his job. Being a cop gave him more satisfaction than he’d ever dreamed of having in his civilian life. Funny, coming out of the marines four years ago, he hadn’t been sure what he’d do. Going back to his hometown had been impossible. College? A fantasy. He’d gotten used to being in action, to fighting and surviving. To nailing bad guys. On a big scale or on a small one, taking criminals out of commission was what he did best…he’d figured that out back when he wasn’t sure he’d ever give a damn about anything again.

Nick liked to think of it as weeding out the bullies. Pushers or terrorists, they were all the same. Narrow-minded. Violent. Caring nothing for anyone else. Just like any other loud, abusive, small-town bully trying to impose his will on everyone around him.

The one he’d grown up with, for instance.

So yeah, being a cop was a perfect fit. He’d never regretted his choice of careers. Except maybe a tiny bit on days like today. “Come on, Rupert, you punk, come visit Mr. Miller here so I can go home, shave and take a shower,” he said under his breath. Rupert was a low-level dealer. Miller was the big fish who brought in the shit that poisoned kids, ruined lives and sparked crime by addicts desperate to get one more high.

Nailing Miller would help a lot of people…which meant a lot to Nick. Because he’d discovered something else when he’d been fighting half a world away in a war-torn area foreign to anything he’d ever known: he was good at helping people who couldn’t help themselves. That was his talent, his calling.

He’d picked up that burden in Kosovo. And he’d never been able to put it back down.

“Hey, partner, you still awake?”

He slid down, trying not to let his head come in contact with the headrest. His personal ick-limit wouldn’t stand for it.

“I’m here,” he said softly into the small, handheld radio, keeping it concealed by his fingers. “Nancy Drew’s back on the beat, keeping the area safe from miscreants and jaywalkers.”

Dex laughed. He could. He was covering the back of the building. In the shade. In a newer car. With air-conditioning.

Nick was the rookie detective. So he got the P.O.S.

“You ever find out from Rosemary why this friend simply had to move in now?” he asked, his voice still low, his eyes constantly scanning the street.

“She’s an old friend of Rosie’s who’s starting a new photography business,” Dex said.

Hence the camera.

“Apparently she just came out of a really ugly divorce.”

“Wait…there’s a truck pulling up.” Nick lowered the radio, watching in his side mirror as a sizable U-Haul truck maneuvered up the street. It almost clipped a BMW and came damn close to taking out a street sign. As the truck passed, he casually glanced over and saw a small woman with curly light brown hair clutching the wheel as if she was a lion tamer holding a chair.

“No,” he bit out when the truck stopped. “Keep going.”

The radio crackled. “What is it?”

“Trouble. A big truck just pulled up in front of Rosemary’s father’s building and double-parked. It’s completely blocking my visual on the perp’s apartment. Not to mention traffic.”

“Want me to get a uniform out there to tell them to move?”

“Absolutely,” he said when he realized the driver was getting out of the truck. The woman called to someone. Somehow, Nick couldn’t muster up much surprise when he saw she was waving at the nosy photographer, who came jogging over.

That female was destined to be the bane of his existence this week.

He waited, tapping his fingers on the dash, watching the two women from behind his dark sunglasses. They stood beside the truck and talked for a while, looking upset. Finally the short, curly-haired driver pulled a cell phone out of her purse. Crossing the street to the shady square, she sat on a bench and started an animated phone conversation.

“No, you are not doing this,” he muttered, shaking his head as he observed the other one—the tall photographer—open the back of the truck and climb inside.

But she was doing it. As he watched in disbelief, she came staggering down the truck ramp carrying a double mattress. All he could see of her behind the mattress was two sandal-clad feet at the bottom, and two hands clutched on either side. Her oblivious friend was turned the other way, not even watching.

“Dammit.”

He looked at his watch. Tried again to peer around the truck. Wondered just how long it was going to take a beat cop to get his ass here and get the truck off the street. But most of all, he wondered what the heck the woman thought she was doing schlepping furniture all by herself on a hot summer day.

“Watch it, lady, you’re gonna fall,” he whispered when she reached the curb, which he thought she might not see.

Nope. She didn’t see it. Realizing what was going to happen, he called, “No!” and leaped out of his car. But it was too late. She tripped and fell forward. It was her extreme good fortune, however, that she landed right on her own mattress.

Before he could think better of it, Nick jogged the few yards over to her. “You okay?”

The woman was still lying there, facedown on the mattress in the middle of the sidewalk. She mumbled something but since her face was buried, he couldn’t make out what.

While waiting for her to move, he noted the richness of her thick hair, which, on closer inspection, was more auburn than true red. It was a warm shade, the color of vibrant earth after a rain. And he definitely noted her tall, curvy form, clad in tight jeans and a sleeveless white tank top.

If he’d thought she was really hurt, he might not have taken a second to appreciate the way she filled out those jeans. But she’d landed on something soft, and the view was definitely worth appreciating. Definitely. Hell, a saint would have looked, and no Walker had ever been accused of being a saint. A devil straight from hell was a more frequent expression.

Breathing deeply, he swallowed his libido back into his gut. “Ma’am? Do you need help getting up?” He cast a quick look to the side, noting that Miller’s blinds were closed tight. Hopefully he wasn’t sitting there in the darkness of his apartment, watching the world through his warped little drug-pushing eyes.

“I’m fine,” he heard as the woman pushed herself up to her knees, until she was on all fours right below him.

Lord have mercy.

Nick closed his eyes briefly, thrusting every low-down wicked Walker thought out of his head by sheer force of will. Trying to find the good manners his mama had tried so hard to teach him, he got hold of himself. When he opened his eyes again, the woman had risen to her feet. Thank God.

It took him less than a second to realize she was afraid of him. Though she jutted her chin out and kept her head up, she did step back. She obviously recognized him as the suspected pervert from the rust bucket parked at the curb around the corner.

He put his hands up, palms out. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

The tension in her body eased a bit, which gave Nick a chance to study her from behind his tinted sunglasses.

She was tall, and as nicely curved in the front as she was in the back. Though dark circles hinted of stress and her cheeks were a little pale—maybe even gaunt—her face didn’t suffer for it. In fact, she had a great face—wide mouth that would probably be beautiful when she smiled. Big old eyes that he figured were blue, but couldn’t tell for sure because of his glasses. Long lashes, creamy complexion, high cheekbones. Yes, indeed, his Nancy Drew was a pretty woman. Even if she was a busybody.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to get this done,” she said, her voice sounding shaky. As if she hadn’t completely accepted that he was merely a nice bystander wanting to help out. Considering how he looked, he couldn’t blame her.

Then she turned her back on him and bent over again—heaven help him for being a bad man—and tried picking up the mattress.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” he said, his throat tight.

“I’m stronger than I look.” Still bent over, she stared doubtfully at the building and added under her breath, “Though the stairs up to the third floor may be…difficult.”

“Third floor?” he snapped in disbelief.

“It’ll be fine,” she insisted, straightening up—without the mattress. “I’m just bringing a few things up there. Not much.”

He followed the airy hand she waved and looked into the truck. No, not much. Just a frigging box spring, dresser, small table, two chairs and a love seat. “You’re nuts. For God’s sake, wait for the movers.” Then, remembering he had a job to get back to, he added, “And you have to move this truck.”

She stiffened. “I don’t have any movers. Paige’s—my friend’s husband was supposed to be here, but he’s not.” Her voice rose a little and she stepped closer, as if she didn’t even realize it. “I have to empty that truck and return it before four o’clock or I’m going to owe Paige for another day’s rental.” Another step. Another flash of spirit. Another decibel and she was almost shouting. “And dammit, that truck is not going anywhere until I get this furniture into that building.”

Feisty. He liked that. He almost smiled, but figured she wouldn’t appreciate it.

Despite a little quiver in her bottom lip, and her initial fear of him, the woman was standing her ground. But that quiver, and a hint of moisture in her big eyes, made him suspect she was hanging on to her bravado by a thin thread. Remembering what Dex had started to say a few minutes ago, he realized this woman was probably moving out on her own for the first time after her…how had his partner described it? Ugly divorce. With nothing but a bed, a table and a few chairs.

His heart twisted, even while a voice in his head whispered, No, this is not your problem.

Damn. The last thing he needed was to worry about her, but he couldn’t help it. Despite being a better-than-average-height female, she had such a look of vulnerability. Particularly in that unsmiling mouth and those darkly circled eyes. Empty eyes. Frightened eyes, he’d say, if he didn’t already know she had guts, because of the way she’d been standing up to him.

Before he could decide what to do, a marked car pulled up behind the truck and a young beat cop Nick recognized from the station got out. Their eyes met for one second and the kid’s mouth quirked in a smile as he took in Nick’s getup.

“Someone’s going to have to move this truck,” he said as he approached them. “It’s blocking traffic.”

Nancy Drew’s friend finally realized what was going on and came running from across the street. “Wait, please, we’ll be so quick unloading it you won’t even know we were here.”

“I’m sorry, you have to get it out of here,” the cop said.

The pretty, sad-looking woman at the center of all of this blinked, looking back and forth between them. Then she wrapped her arms around herself, as if needing strength. Needing support.

Needing.

Nick mentally kicked himself. But even as his internal voice told him he was an idiot, he opened his mouth and surprised them all. “Officer,” he said, looking at the younger man, “between the two of us, we could empty this thing and have these ladies on their way within ten minutes. Don’t you think?”

The kid flinched, not expecting the response. With a slight shake of his head, Nick stopped any questions and got his point across. They were going to do this. If Miller looked out his window, he’d see a cop and a guy helping a lady move in. Not anything unusual in a Southern town known for its hospitality.

Dex might not agree, but Nick’s decision was made. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t understand it himself, really. But something inside him wouldn’t let this haunted-looking woman load her mattress back on that truck and drive away.

She needed help. And he was going to give it to her.

VANDALIZING A BILLBOARD to announce to the world that your husband was a cheating scumbag might not be the best way to save a marriage, but it was one hell of a way to end one.

Melody Tanner-Todd—now just Tanner again, thankfully—had discovered that when she’d sought retaliation against her bastard of an ex, who’d slept his way across Atlanta during their marriage. It had been hugely public, hugely satisfying and it had hugely entertained the city’s commuting population. It had also cost her nearly everything she owned.

“You mean he gets practically all your money just because you painted some graffiti on a billboard?” said Paige Winston—now Suffolk—sounding shocked and dismayed.

Rosemary and Tanya wore similar looks of disbelief, which probably matched the one that had been on Mel’s own face for the past two months—since the day a judge had given her ex most of what she had earned during nineteen years as a model and actress.

“This is unbelievable! The house? The boat? That cheating sack of shit gets it all? Gawd, I’m never getting married. Vibrators are just as good and they don’t come with six-foot-tall walking dicks attached.” Six years might have turned Tanya into a softer-looking, mature woman, but they hadn’t done anything to smooth out that ballsy attitude.

Melody had a flash of déjà vu. It’d been almost exactly six years ago that the four of them had been sitting in this same restaurant, with the same watchful owner, at this same table, drinking margaritas out of possibly these same glasses, on the night before her wedding. Her blissful, lovely, elegant wedding that was supposed to be the start of her perfect life.

The perfection had lasted about ten months. Until Melody had started hearing rumors that her devoted husband was devoted to anything with two parted legs. It had taken another three years for her to grasp the scope of Bill’s betrayals. But eventually she’d realized that her dentist husband was willing to drill absolutely any woman who opened wide.

“The judge agreed with his lawyer that I’d damaged his professional reputation,” Melody murmured, knowing the others were waiting to hear the rest of the story.

They’d heard bits and pieces, of course. Though they lived several hours away, her friends had been a great source of support—even with only their telephone calls—during the ugly, rancorous split-up. They’d wanted to come to see her, but Melody had put them off, not wanting them to know how bad it was.

Only Tanya, who was a flight attendant and visited Atlanta a lot anyway—and who would never take no for an answer—had ignored her request. She’d shown up at Mel’s door one day last May with a bottle of tequila and a big cheesecake. So she knew something about Melody’s disgrace. Just like Rosemary knew the most about her unhappiness. And Paige knew the most about her dreams for the future. But none of them knew the whole story.

“I know you’ve all been wanting to hear everything, but I needed a couple of weeks to pull myself together,” Melody said. “I only want to tell the story once. This is the first time all four of us have been together since I got back, so I guess tonight it’s time to let it all come out.”

Paige reached across the table and took her hand. Rosemary listened quietly, and Tanya gave her a nod of encouragement.

“So to start, yes, he got almost everything.” She squeezed Paige’s fingers. “You know, letting me borrow that furniture to camp out while Rosemary’s father had renovations done on the building was a godsend. I finally got the stuff the judge said I could take from the house, but up until a week ago, I wasn’t sure Bill would let me have even that without another battle.”

“I asked you to stay with me,” Rosemary said.

Rosemary’s frown emphasized some unusual dark smudges beneath her eyes, and Melody realized just how tired and pale her friend looked. She had to wonder what was up with Rosemary, who was usually very precise about her appearance.

“Or me,” Tanya added.

Yes, they’d all offered. But starting a new life on her own had meant just that. On her own. “I know, and thank you. But it was fine. Paige’s stuff was all I needed. Thanks again.”

Paige grinned. “You’re welcome. It was worth it—that cop looked cute carrying stuff up the stairs in his tight pants.”

Frankly, Melody had been too shaken by the scruffy, bearded stranger in the dingy jeans to pay much attention to the boyish policeman who’d helped them move furniture a couple of weeks ago. She still wondered about the man, who, she had to admit, had come to her aid at a time when she’d nearly been at the end of her rope. Odd, since she’d started out being afraid of him—wondering if Bill had hired someone to stalk her when she saw his car parked around the corner two days in a row.

When she’d actually spoken to him—after she’d so stupidly fallen on the mattress—she’d been taken aback by his smooth, sexy voice. There’d also been something nice about his lean jaw, even though it had been almost hidden by his scraggly beard.

Then there’d been his eyes. During one moment when he was helping carry a table up the stairs, his glasses had slid down briefly, allowing her a glimpse of his brown eyes. Nice. Very nice. She liked brown-eyed men. Maybe because Bill’s were green.

Melody had wondered once or twice what had happened to the dangerous-looking stranger who’d been so helpful. He must have accomplished whatever he’d been doing on her street, because she hadn’t seen him since that day.

Mel shrugged off her curiosity. “Anyway, like I said, Bill got almost everything.”

Sipping her sweet tea, Rosemary murmured, “I can’t believe this, sugar. These things don’t happen here in Georgia. All of my friends have lived like queens off their divorce settlements.”

“Atlanta’s not Savannah,” Melody replied. “Here, it’d be perfectly understandable for a wife to take retribution against a cheating husband by having that voodoo queen, Lula Mae Dupré, curse him. Or by breading his Southern-fried steak with rat droppings. But Atlanta’s different. More…”

“Northern,” Rosemary said with audible disdain.

“They said that, because I painted a billboard advertising Bill’s business, I hurt him professionally and damaged his ability to practice dentistry. Meaning, I owe him a living for the rest of his rotten life. And oh, how he loves to rub that in. Can you believe he had the balls to come visit me here? Just to throw it in my face one more time that he won.”

That was the hardest part to swallow. The man could live off her money for a long time. Meanwhile, Melody could be out of funds in as little as two months if she didn’t start working fast. Or if she didn’t sell her famous peacock-feather lingerie on eBay, which she’d seriously considered.

It’d serve Bill right, the bastard, since he’d tried to get that in the divorce settlement, too.

It shouldn’t get that bad. Thankfully, she had her photography hobby—as Bill had called it—to fall back on. She’d tried to pursue it after the wedding, always having a talent for instinctively knowing how to photograph something—or someone—to make a statement. But Bill had been less than supportive, almost petulant, saying she was wasting her time. Eventually it just hadn’t seemed worth the fight and she’d let it go.

Now, though, she had the chance to try again, to prove she was every bit as good behind the camera as she’d been in front of it. She’d already set up her new studio, right downstairs from the small apartment Rosemary’s family had rented to her in one of their historic district townhomes. The Chiltons had been wonderfully supportive; Rosemary’s brother even arranging for some renovations so she’d have a darkroom. She was all set to begin her new life in Savannah as a photographer.

And a single woman.

That was the silver lining in this whole thing. She was free. Free of everyone for the first time in her life. Free to choose what she wanted—not what her mother or her husband wanted for her. Melody intended to enjoy the hell out of her new life. Not as a kid model with the world watching her every move and a controlling mother on her back. Not the immature, desperate-to-be-wanted-for-herself young woman she’d been before she’d married Bill. Not the wife of an up-and-coming society dentist.

Just Melody. Free, independent and ready to live, back here in the only place she’d ever considered home, with the only people she’d ever considered family.

“So,” Paige said, “you never were clear on this. What exactly did you do, and how did Bill know you’d done it? People vandalize signs all the time. You should have denied it.” A few people looked over. Six years and a husband hadn’t done much to quiet Paige’s big voice. Or tame her big curls.

Nibbling her lip, Melody shook her head. A thick lock of reddish-brown hair fell across her eye, and she brushed it back, loving the way her new, shorter hairdo felt. She’d chopped half of it off to frame her face in chunky layers that barely touched her shoulders. Returning to her natural auburn color had been an extra perk—another up-yours to her ex. Bill had adored her long hair, which he’d talked her into dyeing blond again after the wedding.

So much for saying he wanted her for who she was, not the model the world knew. Within a month of their marriage, she’d looked just like the twit who’d gushed to Teen Magazine that what she most wanted was world peace.

World peace would be great. But right now, she’d settle for a five-figure balance in her money-market account.

“Mel?” Paige prompted. “Why did you admit you did it?”

“I couldn’t deny it when I was plastered all over the eleven-o’clock news standing up on the billboard platform with the paint can in my hand,” she said. “Not to mention that the fresh paint was the same Cherry Cordial I’d used to redo the guest room.”

“Cherry Cordial? Gosh, the room must have been so dark,” Paige said, immediately distracted.

“Hush up, I want to hear the rest,” Rosemary said as she tapped a long, pink-tinted nail on the table. “Now, honey, what was it you said that was so damaging to your lesser half?”

Rubbing her eyes wearily, Melody didn’t even look at her friends as she explained, “The billboard was directly over his building, by an exit ramp, so it was pretty high profile.”

High profile, indeed. God, she still couldn’t believe she’d been so damned furious at Bill that she’d climbed up a rickety scaffold ladder with a paint can in one hand and a thick paintbrush clasped tightly in her teeth.

Being honest with herself, she acknowledged that it hadn’t been just his cheating that had driven her to seek revenge. She’d gotten used to the infidelity. Her feelings for Bill had been dead for a long time—she’d just been biding her time, waiting for the opportune moment to hit him with divorce papers. Her lawyer had been looking into ways to separate their money first since she’d been too young and too stupid to demand a prenup.

In that instance, she should have listened to her mother.

She’d waited patiently, trusting her lawyer. But finding out who Bill had had that last fling with had sent her right out of her mind. Shaking her head, she murmured, “The billboard had this big giant picture of Bill, smiling his phony ‘you can count on me’ smile, with the caption ‘Trust Dr. Bill to Drill.’”

Tanya snickered at the cheesiness of it, as Melody had a few years ago when her husband had informed her of the slogan he planned to use in a new ad campaign.

“I wouldn’t trust him to clean my litter box,” Paige said. Then she smiled. “Did I tell you about my new cat? He’s so—”

“Shh!” Tanya hissed, silencing Paige. Never an easy feat.

“I had planned to wait him out—let him ruin himself,” Melody said. “But that day, I learned from one of our closest friends that Bill had seduced her eighteen-year-old daughter…a kid we’d bought Girl Scout cookies from a few years back. I sort of lost it. So I got what I needed and drove to his office.”

Around them, the cacophony of noise seemed to diminish, as if everyone were waiting for her to continue. A look confirmed a few eavesdroppers. But considering everyone in Atlanta had seen her swinging like a deranged monkey from a billboard, she’d pretty well used up her lifetime supply of embarrassment.

In a low, shaky voice, Paige asked, “What’d you do, Mel?”

Reaching for her glass, she admitted, “I added a few words to his slogan until it read, ‘You can Trust Dr. Bill to Drill…your wives, your daughters and certain barnyard animals.’”

A snort from the two women at the next table and the grin on the face of the owner—who’d been hovering over Melody since the minute she’d arrived—confirmed her wider audience. At her own table, her three friends made no effort to hide their laughter. “Oh, my goodness, I would have paid to see that,” Paige said, her face growing red as she giggled helplessly.

With a droll lift of her brow, Melody replied, “You could have, if you lived in Atlanta and happened to be watching the eleven-o’clock news that night. The Channel Six helicopter was flying to the scene of an accident and spotted me. They lit me up like a prisoner going over the wall and broadcast the image all over the airwaves for the entire city to see.”

Rosemary shook her head. “Ouch.”

“It gets better,” Tanya mumbled as she dipped a chip.

Yeah. It got better, in a sick, oh-God-can-you-believe-she-actually-did-that way. “I panicked,” Mel said flatly. “Dropped the evidence. Dashed for the ladder. Slipped in the spilled paint—which got all over me—and fell off the end of the platform. The Cherry Cordial should’ve been called Blood Red, because I looked like a monster out of a horror movie dangling up there. King Kong’s mutant baby or something.”

Beside her, Tanya tried to look sympathetic while also trying to hide a grin. Maybe someday Melody would laugh about it, too. Maybe when she was ninety and had managed to forget how stupid she must have looked on TV, hanging from the platform waiting for the firemen who’d rescued her with a ladder truck.

She had thought that was the most humiliating moment of her life, of all the humiliating moments she’d endured during her marriage to the prick with the drill. It’d been close. But it still couldn’t beat the day her divorce decree had come down.

“Oh, sugar, haven’t you heard?” Rosemary said, her lips curved in a smile. “Like Scarlett O’Hara used to say, ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’”

Paige frowned. “I thought Hannibal Lechter said that.”

Melody reached for a handful of tortilla chips, not caring how many calories were in each one. Without Bill frowning at her, she didn’t give a damn what she ate or how much weight she gained.

“I think,” Tanya interjected with a disgusted grunt, “it’s Klingon. Though I would have taken the Lechter approach.”