Doing It Right

  “I like it here,” Gary said casually, and stood to put his cereal bowl in the sink. Kara was cheered that he’d felt confident enough to interrupt her. She started to get up to put her own plate in the sink when she heard the crash of Gary’s cereal bowl hitting the tile.

  All the color drained from the boy’s face and he cringed away from her. “I’m sorry!” he cried. “I didn’t mean to!”

  “Hey, Gary, relaaaaaaaaaax,” she said casually, inwardly wishing the boy’s stepfather would stop by just long enough for her to break all his fingers. “I drop stuff all the time. So does Jared.”

  “You … you do?”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  He looked as if he didn’t believe her. “It’s not?”

  She raised her plate high, then dropped it. It shattered spectacularly. “Nope. See? Like I said. Happens all the time.”

  He stared at her. She decided he was still entirely too tense and so dropped, in rapid succession, both their juice glasses and his bread plate.

  “Accidents will happen,” she said cheerfully as the bread plate broke against the wall. “See, Gary? They’re just things. You can always buy more things.”

  “Won’t … won’t Dr. Dean be mad?”

  “Dr. Dean just wants to know what the heck you two are up to.”

  Gary jumped again. Jared was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking at the mess and shaking his head.

  “Gary had an accident,” Kara explained. “Then I had several.”

  Jared’s lips went white as he pressed them together, but the laugh escaped anyway. Kara grinned at the sound and Gary visibly relaxed.

  “I’ll clean it up,” Gary said timidly.

  “Freeze,” Jared ordered and Gary froze. “You’re both in socks. Gary, I’m going to pick you up and put you in the living room. Kara, I have no idea how I’ll heft your gross bulk, but I’ll think of something. Then I’ll clean it up.”

  “See if you get any tonight,” she muttered as Jared gingerly picked his way through the minefield of glass slivers, picked Gary up, and carried him out. Then he returned for her.

  “I can do it,” she said doubtfully. “I’m pretty coordinated.”

  He snorted. “Says the woman who tripped getting out of bed this morning. Just stand still.” He scooped her up with a theatrical groan, stole a kiss, then staggered into the living room. Gary saw them coming and giggled. He was standing next to their neighbor, Ava.

  “Well, hi,” Kara said, surprised, as Jared put her down and returned to the kitchen. “I didn’t know Jared had brought company. Do you have time for a bite?”

  “No,” Ava said regretfully. She was a charming matron with two young sons, both of whom had been over to play with Gary. She and Kara had absolutely nothing in common, and Kara didn’t know if she liked Ava because of that, or in spite of that. “I just need to call the locksmith. Jack took my keys to work with him and now I’m locked out.”

  Kara edged toward the door. She had an idea why Jared had brought Ava over. “Did you try the back door?”

  “No, but I know it’s locked,” Ava assured her. “It’s always locked.”

  “Still. It never hurts to try. Let me check it for you. Keep an eye on Gary for me?”

  “We broke things,” Gary reported solemnly to Ava as Kara left the room.

  Sure, Kara thought, grabbing her smallest toolkit on her way out, I promised. No more hacking. But that doesn’t mean Ava should be stuck outside for the six hours it’ll take a locksmith to get here.

  She grinned. She was hopelessly in love. She had a baby on the way and nice neighbors and was finally part of the system in a good way, a helpful way. She was married to a passionate, amazing, wonderful man and she still got to crack the occasional lock.

  Life was good. And, in a way, it was all because of ole One Eyebrow.

  Kara laughed and bent to the lock.

  WILD HEARTS

  This story is for my maternal grandfather,

  John Opitz, who is, as of this writing, at death’s door.

  Again.

  Author’s Note

  As with Thief of Hearts, Wild Hearts isn’t a standalone book read: single title, 330 manuscript pages, either. It’s more of a tidy summary—whatever happened to the D.A.’s kid sister, anyway? Did Kara manage to live the good clean life of a citizen? Did Jared break his neck showing her he too could do a handstand without help? Could the Minneapolis D.A. be the only non-crooked lawyer in the history of practicing law? It’s all a fascinating mystery to me, anyway, and one I couldn’t leave alone.

  So here you go, as Paul Harvey would say: the rest of the story.

  Chapter 1

  Kat Wechter stomped out of Old Navy, wondering for the hundredth time why she ever shopped at a store that had such annoying commercials. Not to mention clothes designed for size-two models with no ass and long legs.

  I have an ass, she thought darkly, like every woman who eats three meals a day. And as for the long legs? Ha. And again, I say ha.

  At least this time she hadn’t wasted an hour of her life she’d never get back, fruitlessly wading through rack after rack of tiny tees and low-slung pants. Cross of Christ! They didn’t know the low-slung look was over? Kat had never enjoyed wearing jeans that showed the world her pubic bone, but had endured for the sake of fashion. But she refused, refused, to put up with the look when it was so obviously two seasons ago.

  Plus, it was laundry day and the only thing at hand were granny underpants. So ditch the low-slungs, for the sake of all humanity.

  She found her car in the Florida parking lot—the Mall of America was so large, the lots weren’t divided by letters, but states—and walked up to the driver’s side.

  To her surprise, there was a man already in the driver’s seat. Not knowing quite what to do—scream for help? Haul him out of the car and kick his ass?—she rapped on the window with her knuckles.

  He looked at her. She looked at him. Their eyes met. If she hadn’t been so pissed, it might have been a romantic moment.

  “Boy,” he said. “This is awkward.”

  Chapter 2

  “Get out of my car.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “I think you’re stealing my car.”

  “Okay, it’s exactly what you think. But I’m not after a joyride.”

  “Get out of my car.”

  “For what it’s worth, it’s a life and death situation, okay?”

  “Get out! of my car!”

  “Look, you’re insured, right?”

  “Get out! Of my car!” She fumbled in her purse for her cell phone, mad at herself all over again—why hadn’t she noticed him before she’d walked up to the car? She wasn’t a total innocent. She knew some men were not, under any circumstances, to be trusted. Ever. Ever.

  “By the time the cops get here,” he pointed out, “I’ll be long gone.”

  “I’m not calling the cops.”

  “Hey, thanks!”

  “I’m calling my brother, the district attorney.”

  “Awwww, no.” The car thief rested his forehead on her—her!—steering wheel. “Of all the cars in this lousy giant parking lot, I pick the D.A.’s sister’s Mustang?”

  “Yeah, so get out now, before you find out what Stillwater State Prison looks like from the inside.”

  “Honey, I already know.” He did something and her engine purred to life.

  She slapped the window. “Dammit! Don’t you dare!”

  “I have to. It’s a long story and I don’t want to bore you with the gory details. And believe me, sweetie, they’re awfully gory. Step back, please,” he added politely, “I don’t want to run over your toes.”

  She ran around to the front of the car and jumped on the hood.

  He stared at her through the windshield. The part of her mind that wasn’t annoyed couldn’t help but notice—the man was a stone fox. Auburn hair and big green eyes, true green, the color of crushed peas. Okay, that sounded weird, bu
t they really were a pretty, vivid spring green. And tan, nicely tanned by the wind or the sun, it wasn’t a rack tan, and he didn’t have the ghostly white complexion of most true redheads. A long nose, reddish brown stubble on his cheeks and chin. Bags under his eyes. Obviously, thieving had been keeping him up nights.

  “Please get off the hood,” he said, looking helpless.

  “My hood.”

  “Please get off your hood.”

  “Get out of my car and I will.”

  “This isn’t a Starsky and Hutch episode! Come on, get down before you get hurt.”

  “Get out of my car and I will.”

  “What are you, playing a recording? Please get off,” he pleaded. “I can’t peel out of here in a dramatic fashion with you on the hood like a bug about to be squashed.”

  “Surrender or face the consequences.” The hood was uncomfortable and she was clinging to the windshield wipers with both hands. The car needed a wash. “I’ve mentioned my brother can lock you up for twenty years, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s come up once or twice.”

  “So give up now, before someone gets hurt.”

  His green eyes bulged. “Someone? I’m in here, nice and safe, and you’re out there, hanging on like a freak.”

  “You’re a thief!” she yelled back. “And I’m a law-abiding citizen of the state of Minnesota! And you will get out of my car and skulk off into the night like the common criminal you are! Or you will face consequences the likes you have never seen! Now get out.”

  He leaned over and unlocked the passenger side door. “Get in,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Come on, get down and get in. Then you’re in your car, and I’m in your car, and we both get what we want.”

  Her brain had obviously been left behind at Old Navy—this is crazy—because she clambered down—I must be crazy—walked around the side of the car—I know better—opened the door, and climbed in.

  “Don’t forget your seatbelt,” he reminded her cheerfully, backing out of the slot. “It’s the law.”

  Chapter 3

  “So where can I drop you?” Chess asked, staring at her out of the corner of his eye as the car climbed down the parking ramp.

  Her arms were folded across her chest as she stared out the windshield. “You mean where can I drop you. You’re not taking my car.”

  “Actually,” he said apologetically, “I sort of am.” She grabbed his shoulder. “I’m making a citizen’s arrest. Citizen’s arrest! So you can drive to the police station.”

  “You can’t do that,” he pointed out, trying not to giggle. “If you lay your hands on me and rough me up, I could sue you.”

  “You’d lose. I know a lot of lawyers.” “Yeah, don’t remind me,” he mumbled. The freaking D.A.’s sister? Of all the lousy luck—she was a stiff, related to a stiff, and she was gorgeous. Wild dark brown hair flying all over the place. Black eyes. Not brown. Black. You couldn’t tell where her pupils began, which gave her a mesmerizing gaze. Great rack. Great ass. Great everything. She was wearing beat-up blue jeans and a red sweater, and the excitement of the last few minutes had brought a lovely rosy flush to her olive skin.

  “In order to make a citizen’s arrest,” she said, still clutching his shoulder, “I will physically restrain you. Which gets me back to—drive us to the police station. Although the crime took place in Bloomington, I think the one downtown would be better. The address is—”

  “I know where the cop shop is.”

  “Then,” she went on like a demented, gorgeous robot with minimal programming, “I will notify the police that I observed a crime. Then I will provide the police with information—you—in order to help them identify the thief—you. Then I’ll sign the complaint form. About you. Then I’ll go home and have a large steak dinner to celebrate your incarceration. Then I’ll appear in court when the district attorney’s office asks.”

  “That’s the modern citizen’s arrest?” He was horrified, yet fascinated.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re assaulting me, you know.”

  She looked at her hand, which was closed in a fist bunched up in his shirt. She relaxed her fingers and went back to cupping her elbows and staring out the windshield.

  “Maybe I could drop you off at your doctor’s office,” he said helpfully.

  “What?” She irritably puffed a dark curl off her forehead. He tried not to be charmed. He failed. He wondered what her hair felt like—silky, wiry, both? He wondered when he’d stopped thinking about business and started thinking about getting laid.

  No, he didn’t wonder. He knew—the moment she knocked on the window while he tried to pop the slot.

  She’d said something he totally missed. “What?”

  “I said, what makes you think I’m seeing a doctor?”

  “Look around you! Rather than retreating to a safe distance and calling the cops, you leapt on the car.”

  “My car.”

  “And now you’re in the car, riding with a desperate criminal.”

  “My car with a desperate criminal.”

  “And you need new programming.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “I should have just let you take my car? Just stood back helplessly and let you have your way with me? With it?” she corrected herself, her face getting redder by the moment. “Well, fuck you!”

  “Whoa,” he muttered, taking a left at the light. She’d gone from annoying robot to screaming, red-faced psychotic. And it was sexy as hell.

  “Fuck you if you thought I’d do that. I don’t roll over for any man, and never a thief. So give up now, or I promise you, you’ll be sorry.”

  “I already kind of am.”

  He pulled into a large Park ‘n’ Fly lot, put the Mustang in neutral, hit the parking brake, and got out.

  After a moment, she got out, too.

  “I give up,” he said, raising his hands. “It’s all yours. Thank you and good night.”

  He looked around the parking lot, seeing several nice candidates. Minnesota—land of the sleeping. It was so easy to snatch in this state. The only easier one? North Dakota.

  She came around the side of the car to glare up at him. She was just the right size for a woman, in his opinion, about five foot seven; he could have comfortably rested his chin on her head. Not that he dared. Safer to comfortably rest his chin on a cobra.

  “That’s it? You’ve given up?”

  He stopped raising his hands and handed her the keys. She was so surprised, she dropped them. He patiently bent down, scooped them out of the gravel, stood, and handed them over.

  “So … so I get in and drive away?”

  He gallantly held the door open for her.

  Still, she stood there. “And just leave you here?”

  “I’ll find a ride,” he said, straight-faced.

  She chewed on her lower lip, which made it swell. Which made him want to chew on it. Which was annoying—business first. And chewing on anything belonging to the D.A.’s sister was a bad, bad, bad idea.

  “No,” she said at last. “I can’t.”

  “Sure you can. Climb in, put it in first, stomp on the accelerator—that’s the pedal on the right—”

  “I’m aware of how to drive a stick, thank you.”

  “Well. ’Bye.”

  Still she stood there, looking up at him with an expression he couldn’t read—surprise? Shock? Bewilderment? Helplessness?

  Don’t.

  He took a step toward her.

  Bad idea, man.

  There was no room between them now.

  Dude, you will be so completely sorry.

  He cupped her—hot—face in his hands and eased his mouth to hers, touching her soft lips with his, then easing them apart with his tongue as he tasted her, touched her tongue with his, breathed in her scent, let his fingers plunge through her wild curls, testing their texture, tasting her mouth, her ripe, sweet, mouth, feeling the excruciating pa
in explode through his testicles and race up to his kidneys, watched her tip away from him as the gravel rushed to his face. The rocks should have hurt like hell but they felt like moss, and then nothing felt like anything, and he went bye-bye in his head.

  Chapter 4

  “Tom, you’ve got to come see,” Kat said urgently, waving her hands before his face. Her big brother ignored her, as was the purview of older brothers the world over, still chatting on his cell phone as he shrugged into his suit coat, shut down his computer, maneuvered his way around the stacks of legal files, and followed her out the door to the parking ramp.

  “Yes—yes! Come on, you aren’t really … you are? For God’s sake, of course you need a bigger house—the governor’s mansion wouldn’t be big enough—What? Uh-huh. Other than take in more foster kids than Mia Farrow and Angelina Jolie put together, you—Yes? She did not—Well, tell her I’m keeping an eye on both of you …”

  Kat noticed other women checking her brother out, not that she could blame them. Except for the tie—a nightmare of green spots on a barf-brown background—he was a good-looking man in his mid-thirties—dark blond hair cropped short all over, tall and athletic—he took pleasure in kicking Judge Kimmes’s ass every week at racquetball—with the light blue eyes that were, except in her case, the Wechter trademark.

  “… she did? Oh boy. Didn’t I tell you? I told you, you’ll have your hands full. What is this, your third baby in how many—No! That’s really pretty. Yeah, I have to—my sister’s here and I’ve got to—Okay. Say hi to Kara for me. I’ll talk to you later, Jared. Oh, hey, doc, it hurts when I do this. Yeah, yeah, don’t do that. ’Bye.”

  Tom slapped his phone closed and looked at her. “What in the world is so important in the middle of a Friday afternoon? I’ve got cases to prep for and—”

  “Deals to make, no doubt.” She puffed a curl out of her face. Of all the days to forget a hair clip or a rubber band. “Come look what I’ve got.” She looked around, but the police station was two blocks over—parking was lousy in Minneapolis on game nights. She’d been lucky to get this close to his office. “Maybe we should get a cop.”