“It would be weird. No doubt,” Rae said in complete agreement.

“Exactly. And I don’t want things to be weird. I’ve got plans for that office—like kicking butt and making a name for myself. And that name is not going to be ‘That New Girl Who Boned the Twitter Terrorist.’ “

“Uh-oh.” Rae grimaced. “Then I hate to be the one to break this to you…but you and Kyle are in this morning’s Scene and Heard column.”

Rylann’s heart stopped. “What? No.”

“Not your name,” Rae said quickly. She took out her iPhone and pulled up the gossip column online. “I’d been waiting to mention this, thinking you were going to get a kick out of it. Guess I called that one wrong.” She began reading out loud. ” ‘Kyle Rhodes, Chicago’s Twitter Terrorist and son of billionaire businessman Grey Rhodes, made his return to the social scene at the much-anticipated opening of Gold Coast hot spot Firelight, where he was spotted cozying up to an unknown brunette bombshell wearing a knockout red dress. Sources say the couple shared several drinks and appeared to have eyes only for each other as they left the nightclub together…’ “

Stunned, Rylann said nothing for a moment.

She cursed the red magic boob dress.

“On the bright side, they did call you a brunette bombshell,” Rae said.

And under different circumstances, Rylann would’ve preened shamelessly for at least two or three minutes over that, but right now she was too busy panicking. Back in March, there’d been that picture of her and Kyle in court, the one that had been blasted all over the media. If anyone connected the dots between that and the “brunette bombshell” he’d been seen with last night…

Not good.

“They don’t have any photographs of Kyle and me at the club, do they?” she asked anxiously.

“Just another one of him staring at your boobs.” Rae put down her phone, seeing Rylann’s face. “I’m kidding. Take a deep breath, Ry. You’re fine. No one will know this is you. It’s a big city, with lots of brunettes.”

“Right.” Rylann exhaled, slowly climbing down off the ledge and thinking how close she’d come to carelessly blowing her cover.

Too close.

ON HER WAY home from the restaurant, Rylann’s cell phone rang. For a moment, as she dug around in her purse to find it, she wondered if it would be Kyle, calling her about the Scene and Heard column. She could practically hear his low, teasing voice already. Just calling to check up on my favorite brunette bombshell, counselor. Thought I’d see if you’d be up for round four tonight.

Rylann finally found her phone.

Oh. Just her mother.

“Mom…hi,” she answered.

“Looks like I was right to warn you about that Kyle Rhodes.”

Rylann stopped at a four-way intersection, immediately on high alert. How could her mother, down in Florida, possibly know anything? So she played it cool. “Not sure what you mean, Mom.”

“I was just reading the Trib online,” Helen said. “The Twitter Terrorist made the Scene and Heard column again.”

“You read Scene and Heard?” Rylann asked.

“Sure. How else am I supposed to keep up with all the local gossip while we’re down here for the winter?”

And by winter, she meant early May. “I haven’t seen this morning’s column,” Rylann said. And technically, that was true—she’d only heard it. “I was busy this morning, then went to lunch with Rae. I’m just walking home now.”

“Apparently, he was spotted at some hot new nightclub. Leaving with a mysterious brunette bombshell in a red dress. Probably some skank he met that night.”

Then her mother changed the subject, cheerfully moving on. “Anyway, what’s new with you, sweetie? Did you do anything exciting last night?”

Yes. Kyle Rhodes. “Um, nothing special. Rae and I went out for a few drinks.” Rylann figured it was best to gloss over the rest of the details, seeing how her mother had just called her a skank. “Out of curiosity, what’s with all the animosity toward Kyle Rhodes? You don’t even know him.”

“I told you. I didn’t like the way he was looking at you in that photo,” she said. “Who looks at a woman, a perfect stranger, like that in a courtroom of all places? My firm used to represent men like him all the time. Wealthy, charming, think they own the world and can get away with anything.”

“It’s not like he killed anyone, Mom. He shut down Twitter,” Rylann said. She knew she sounded a bit defensive, but her mother’s words bothered her. She’d seen firsthand the real Kyle Rhodes—the guy who, despite everything, had voluntarily helped her in the Quinn case. Yes, he had his flaws, but there were good parts, too. And not just the naked parts.

Quickly, she changed the subject, not wanting to talk any more about Kyle Rhodes, the Scene and Heard column, or anything else related to last night. The message had been received, loud and clear: going home with Kyle had been crazy. And Meth Lab Rylann didn’t do crazy.

Starting now.

Shortly after arriving home, she hung up with her mother and dropped her purse on the floor in her bedroom. Stuffed to the gills with coconut-crusted French toast and thoroughly exhausted after her night of debauchery with Kyle, she kicked off her shoes and crawled into bed for a nap.

Over three hours later, Rylann woke to the sound of her cell phone ringing. She sat up in bed, foggy-headed with sleep and disoriented by the fact that it had begun to get dark outside. She leaned over and reached for her purse, grumbling to herself as she rooted around for her cell phone. Somebody had better be dead—and she meant that literally. If there wasn’t an FBI, a DEA, a Secret Service, or an ATF agent on the other end of the line with a major case-related crisis, heads were going to roll.