Hooked

good muscle tone for their size . It wouldn’t be long before gravity took hold and she’d droop like an old bag lady. Triple Ds didn’t stay perky forever. She could get a lift, but that went against Benny’s sensibilities. All natural, no preservatives, like goddamn Ben and Jerry’s. When things really start to slide, Benny might think about turning her in for a new ice cream cone.
    But thinking is all he’d do. They were bound by business and secrets, and he knew it. She liked her life too much to lose any part of it, and she’d do whatever it took to make sure that didn’t happen.
    She could deal with his need for variety; that was part of their marriage arrangement. The important thing was that he came home to her. In bed, she could compete with any woman. After all, she taught the young ones everything they knew. She’d tricked long enough to know what men liked, and she didn’t share everything. Some things she kept for Benny alone.
    She cupped her hands under her breasts and lifted them. Keeping her eyes on the mirror, she turned one way, then another. Hmm, flat stomach, no cellulite on her thighs, ass still where it was twenty years ago. Face unlined, neck smooth. The way he exercised it, Benny’s dick would give out long before her triple Ds hit the floor.
    Enough self-adulation. She chose a Versace suit out of the walk-in closet and dressed, still wondering why she hadn’t heard from her husband. It wasn’t like him not to check in. What if something happened to him? She’d have heard by now, wouldn’t she? She should call him. No, he probably had too much of his precious scotch and slept late , that’s all. He’d be home. They had plans for the evening―dinner at the van Sykes. Benny wouldn’t miss hobnobbing with the beautiful people.
    Brushing any thought of disaster from her mind, she put on her three-carat diamond studs, planted her pedicured fe et into her four-inch Manolos, and dashed out the door.

Chapter Eight
    Apology Not Accepted

    T he next morning, Tawny didn’t see Walsh in the lobby. If he was going to arrest her, he’d better show himself or else she’d have breakfast and taxi to the airport. And that would be that. Damn him and the IRS.
    She wasn’t about to run away and be on the lam for the rest of her life. She owned her loft, a few pieces of original art and sculpture, some signed first editions by authors she respected, and a treasured collection of Etruscan and Greek artifacts. Then there was her other life—the one she loved and that the IRS knew nothing about. But they knew where to find her.
    She asked the hotel concierge to hold her things while she ate, then she’d settle up. Looping her satchel straps over her shoulder, she entered the coffee shop. Vacationers filled the place, dressed, or undressed, for their day at the beach. And there was Walsh, sitting at a table set for two. He put down his coffee cup and rose.
    She stopped in her tracks. So did her heart. Damn him. Why did he have to look so good—rested and relaxed, like he’d slept twelve hours. She woke with puffy eyes and a crick in her neck from sleeping sitting up. The bourbon had knocked her out. She damn well wouldn’t do that again.
    “Morning,” he said as she approached.
    She pulled his razor out of her tote and dropped it on the table. “I missed this.”
    He rubbed his bristly chin. “Yeah, I know. Thanks.”
    With the Hollywood stubble, he looked even less like a cop and sexier than ever in faded jeans and a sea-green, open-neck dress shirt. His dark hair, damp from the shower, curled onto his collar. He smelled like herbs and lime. She took the chair he held out and tried to ignore the physical impact he had on her, but her cheeks grew hot in spite of her efforts. Double damn.
    The waiter came to take her order. After a quick perusal of the menu, she ordered an egg white omelet and a bagel. “Lite cream cheese, if you have it. And coffee.”
    “Pot’s on the table, ma’am.”
    She spotted the carafe. “So it is.”
    The waiter trotted off with a smile, and Walsh poured her coffee. He acted contrite, and so he should.
    “I wasn’t sure you drank coffee, health food nut that you are.”
    “Can’t give up everything.”
    “About last night―”
    “Forget it. What else could you have expected?” She put cream in her coffee, no sugar, stirred, and sipped. “I wouldn’t have charged you full price. You don’t make enough to pay for me without a