“How so?”

“For starters, I wouldn’t have ended up hanging out with the bachelorette party. And there wouldn’t have been any Charlotte, nor any Charlotte waking you up in the middle of the night a week later and getting you all cranky with me.”

“Who knows? Maybe everything would’ve happened exactly the same way.”

“Doubtful. I was about ten seconds away from walking over to you before the blonde sat down, and if that had happened . . . Well, let’s just say I’d planned to be pretty charming.”

The elevator reached their door. “Awfully confident there, are you?” she asked, as they stepped out and began walking down the hallway.

“You’ve already admitted there was a vibe between us.”

“True. But in this alternate universe where you walked up to me that night, the odds are that you still would’ve found some way to annoy me.”

“Maybe. But, deep down, there would’ve been a part of you that would’ve been attracted to me, nevertheless.” He slowed down as they reached her front door. “Which means you would’ve said yes when I asked to walk you home that night, and we would’ve ended up right here, on your doorstep. With you wondering if I was going to give you a good-night kiss.”

Her pulse began to race when he took a step closer.

Stay cool, Slade.

“Actually, I probably would’ve said that a kiss isn’t such a good idea, with us being neighbors.”

“And I probably would’ve said that you’re overthinking things.” He put one hand on the wall next to her, trapping her in.

Wow, had his eyes suddenly gone all sexy and smoky.

She fought to keep her voice steady, despite the fact that her sassy subconscious had just jumped up and screamed Yes! Finally! and now was eagerly waving Ford in with two lit air-traffic control beacons. Straight ahead. Keep it coming, big boy. “And that probably would’ve annoyed me.”

His lips curved. “Probably.” He bent his head, his voice turning husky. “But I would’ve kissed you anyway.”

She closed her eyes and sucked in a breath when his mouth brushed over hers in a teasing caress that shot a thrill of anticipation down to her toes. Momentarily forgetting everything else except her need to feel more of him, she slid her hands up his toned, solid chest and curled her fingers into his shirt.

He growled softly and pressed her lips open, pushing her back against the door. When his tongue wound hotly around hers, she moaned and arched against him. He cupped her cheek with one hand, kissing her so thoroughly that they both were breathless as he slid one thigh between hers, his other hand gripping her hip possessively and—

A door opened farther down the hallway.

They immediately sprang apart. Victoria turned and pretended to be searching for her keys in her purse as Ford shoved his hands in his pockets and gave a nonchalant nod over his shoulder. “Hey, Dean.”

“Hey, Ford.”

Her cheeks flushed both from the kiss and from nearly being caught, Victoria looked up and smiled at Dean, her neighbor in unit 4A, as he walked into the waiting elevator. She unlocked her door and stepped inside her loft, then turned around.

When it was just the two of them again, Ford leaned against the doorjamb, peering down at her with eyes that were a warm, heated blue. “I think it’s safe to say that if things had gone differently at the bar that night, that would’ve been one hell of a kiss.”

“Maybe.” She stepped closer. “But this would’ve been the part when I would’ve said good night to you anyway.”

His lips curved as he held her gaze. “Good night, Victoria.”

After watching him walk down the hallway to his place, she closed her front door and leaned against it. Alone in her loft, she touched her fingers to her lips.

Irritating and overconfident, no doubt.

But goddamn, did that man know how to kiss.

Sixteen

AT WORK THE following morning, Ford met with his managing editor, Marty, to discuss a possible idea for a new story.

As was his ritual, he’d watched the local news on TV before falling asleep the previous night, and had seen something that had gotten his journalistic fires going. “The kid is only nine years old. Apparently, his father had come home from a bar and started a fight with the boy’s mother. The boy jumped in to help, so his father put him in the hospital instead.”

Marty shook his head. “It’s terrible, I know. Martinez covered the father’s arrest yesterday,” he said, referring to one of their criminal courts reporters. “But how is this a story for you?”

“They said DCFS previously had been out to the family’s house twice because of claims of abuse, but decided both times that there wasn’t enough evidence to support the allegations. I’d like to know what was in those DCFS reports. And I’d also like to know how many other kids in this city have been victims of abuse or neglect after their families were already involved with child protective services.”

Marty leaned back in his desk chair. “Sounds very similar to your story on Darryl Moore and the probation department.”

Ford met with Marty on almost a daily basis to discuss potential stories. That was part of the job; a good investigative journalist always had a lot of ideas. But this story, in particular, had struck a chord with him, and he was eager to run with it. “I think that’s a good thing, given the interest in the probation department piece. Maybe we make it a series. A whole exposé on negligence in government agencies that are responsible for protecting the innocent. That kind of thing.”

Marty considered that and nodded. “Well, as long as you’re pissing off government bureaucrats, you might as well add DCFS, too.”

Later that morning, there was a development on another front: Vaughn e-mailed over Peter Sutter Number One’s mug shot and Ford immediately forwarded it along to his sister.

“It’s not him. No way would I leave the bar with this guy,” she said, calling him during a short break she had at work. “Look at that blank stare. Seriously, you take this dude home and you’ll wake up strapped to a table wrapped in cellophane.”

“It’s a mug shot, Nicole. You’re not supposed to smile and play pouty for the camera. Try to picture him looking more approachable.”

“It’s not him. The Peter Sutter I met looked normal.”