“I’m not sure. For now, just bring it to me. I’m at the café.”

“I’ll try. I’m not sure how I’ll do it without Erin finding out.”

“You’ll think of something.”

“Is it the doll?” he asked, as though it suddenly all made sense. “Janey, Erin’s aunt Noreen gave her that doll the very first time she got pregnant. Noreen had tried to have kids for years but miscarried several times. Then when she finally did carry all the way, her baby died two weeks later in its sleep.”

“Just like Erin’s.”

“Exactly.”

That fact only reinforced my belief that this was somehow connected to that doll. “Billy, get that doll out of the house. Now. I’ll wait for you here.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

We hung up, and I started a new Google. Good thing they were free. This time I looked up how to destroy a possessed item. From what I could tell, I’d need holy water, the heart of a dragon, and the nail clippings from a canonized saint.

17

Ahhh, Friday…

My second favorite F-word.

—T-SHIRT

A little while later, Billy knocked on the office door.

“Come in,” I said as though I had a right to.

He walked in with a brown paper bag. “It’s in here. You think this will stop her?”

I took it. Opened it. Shivered. “I hope so. What did Erin say?”

“Nothing. I told her I was meeting my mistress. She told me to make sure I wore clean underwear, ’cause she’d rigged the brakes and it would be awkward if the EMTs had to cut off dirty boxers.”

“She plans ahead. I like that.”

He nodded, suddenly nervous. “What if this doesn’t work?”

“Then we’ll keep looking. I won’t give up, Billy.”

“Thanks. I can’t imagine why Erin hates you so much.”

“Boggles the mind, right?”

Billy left, and I let myself acknowledge the heat that I’d begun to associate with all things Reyes Farrow. I tucked the bowl I’d used to confiscate a sample of his posole against my side and hurried to the kitchen sink.

I rinsed it out, hiding the evidence, then turned toward him. “You’re here again.”

“You’re here again,” he said. He was leaning against the prep table, watching me.

I was busy thinking, My God, that man defines the word “smoldering,” when he asked, “What’d you think of it?”

With a snort, I said, “It was freaking awesome. Seriously. Like, mind-blowing. What are we talking about?”

Humor deepened the dimples he sported whenever he wanted any woman within a fifty-foot radius to melt into a quivering puddle of girl jelly. His dimples were just too sexy, too delicious, not to have an ulterior motive.

“The posole,” he said.

“What? I didn’t take any of your posole. I have my own posole at home. Like, a gallon.”

“Ah. So, that hint of red chile on your blouse?”

I gasped and checked out the front of my shirt.

A breathy laugh escaped him. “Busted.”

After closing my lids, I said, “For the record, it was incredible. You should become a chef. Or buy a restaurant. You’d make a killing. And only partly because you draw crowds of ovulating women.”

He sobered and dropped his gaze. “I don’t mean to.”

I’d meant it as a compliment. Apparently it wasn’t one. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It doesn’t suit you.”

Having no idea what he meant by that, I went back to my earlier thoughts of all the words in the English language that he defined. Beautiful. Alluring. Provocative. Captivating. Charming. Sensuous. Dark. Brooding. And somewhere in there, as always, the word bad popped up. I got the feeling that when Reyes Farrow wanted to be, he could be very, very bad.

I realized he was letting me take him in. Giving me a moment, as it were. I dropped my gaze and asked, “Want to go for round two?”

I felt the tension in the air tighten like a bowstring being pulled between us.

“With the same rules?” I added.

“And what rules were those again?”

“Can I have you? For fifteen minutes?” Humiliation surged through me. He was a tad angry the last time we did this. It would serve me right for him to say no.

“Right,” he said softly. “I remember now. I can’t touch you for fifteen minutes.”

“Yes.”

He was in front of me. I felt his heat but could not bring myself to look at him. “And what happens after fifteen minutes?”

The arrogance I’d used to my advantage last time had fled me. I had no clever comeback. No promise of what I could do to him in that fifteen minutes. I just knew that I wanted him. Plain and simple.

“After fifteen minutes, all bets are off.”

“And I can touch you?”

A warmth washed over me. The prospect of him touching me caused both excitement and anxiety. The mere thought made me feel vulnerable. Exposed. At his mercy. But a deal was a deal.

“Yes.”

“And no thoughts of running a blade across your throat while I’m tied up?”

I looked up at him at last. “Like it would do me any good.”

“Exactly.”

He reached behind himself, took off his apron, and ripped off its strap. “If we do this, will you finish what you start?”

He asked it while holding the strap out to me, giving me permission to tie him up. For some reason, the thought of him tied up gave me a hit of confidence, even though I knew it would do absolutely nothing to stop him should he want out.

“And if I don’t?” I asked. I wasn’t a tease. I was pretty sure about that, but if something happened… I wanted a guarantee of some kind that he would not become the bad boy I knew he could be.

“Like I said before, Dutch, I’m not pubescent. I’ll survive if you want to stop, but just barely. I might need CPR.”

I let out a soft laugh.

He showed me those dimples again, then fetched the chair, sliding it to the center of the room. He sat down and crossed his wrists at his back, a challenge glittering in his eyes. The width of his shoulders became all the more evident in that position, and I had to take in his form for a moment before walking around to the back of him.

I knelt down and wrapped the strap over his wrists. He let his fingers slide over my hands as I tied. The movement, so small and seemingly inconsequential, sent tiny shivers up my arms. When I finished, I bent forward and kissed his palms. His long fingers glided over my cheek and neck.

When I stood, I walked to the timer, set it, then turned back to him. “I only have fifteen minutes,” I explained as I peeled off my boots, jeans, and underwear. I had to save every second I could.

The sweater I wore hung past my hips, so he didn’t really see anything, but he gave a low growl and let his head fall back as though he now regretted being tied up.

I straddled him like last time and drove my fingers into his hair. He focused on me, his glistening gaze sharp, his sleek muscles hard. I kissed him, softly this time, the act unhurried and intoxicating. When he opened to me, he tasted like storm clouds and rain. I settled on him, and he drew in a cool breath of air between our mouths. His erection teased and tempted me, and I pushed into him a little harder. A whispery moan escaped him, and he tilted his hips into me. The friction caused a jolt of electricity. I clutched his shoulders, and he did it again, rubbing my clitoris, sparking a fire deep inside me.