Hot Rocks

trust Jack O’Hara’s daughter herself. Big Jack’s daughter was the type who had drinks in a bar with a strange man and ended up knocking said man on his excellent ass with a steamy, soul-deep kiss. Jack’s daughter took big, bad chances that had big, bad consequences.
    Laine Tavish lived normal, thought things through and didn’t make waves.
    She’d let the O’Hara out for one brief evening, and look what it had gotten her. An exciting, sexy interlude, sure, and a hell of a mess at the end of it.
    “It just goes to show,” she murmured to Henry, who demonstrated his accord by thumping his tail.
    Time to put things back in order. She wasn’t giving up who she was, what she’d accomplished, what she planned to accomplish, because some second-rate thief believed she had part of his last take.
    Had to be second-rate, she thought as she gathered up the loose stuffing from the once pretty silk throw pillows she’d picked out for the George II daybed. Uncle Willy never traveled in the big leagues. And neither, despite all his talk, all his dreams, had Big Jack.
    So, they’d trashed her place, come up empty and took easily fenced items in lieu.
    That, Laine thought, would be that.
    Of course, they’d probably left prints all over the damn place. She rolled her eyes, sat on the floor and started stacking scattered paperwork. Dim bulbs were a specialty when Uncle Willy was involved in a job. It was likely whoever’d broken in, searched, stolen, would have a record. Vince would trace that, identify them, and it was well within the realm of possibility that they’d get picked up.
    It was also in that realm that they’d be stupid enough to tell the cops why they broke in. If that came down, she’d claim mistaken identity.
    She’d be shocked, outraged, baffled. Acting the part—whatever part was necessary—was second nature. There was enough of Big Jack in her veins that running a con wouldn’t be a stretch of her skills.
    What was she doing now, Laine Tavish of Angel’s Gap, but running a lifetime con?
    Because the thought depressed her, she pushed it aside and immersed herself in refiling her paperwork. Immersed enough that she nearly jumped straight off the floor when she heard the knock on the front door.
    Henry bolted out of his mid-morning snooze and sent out a furious spate of throaty, threatening barks—even as he slunk behind Laine and tried to hide his bulk in the crook of her arm.
    “My big, brave hero.” She nuzzled him. “It’s probably the window guy. No eating the window guy, right?”
    As a testament to his great love and devotion, Henry went with her. He made growling noises and stayed one safe pace behind.
    She was wary enough herself after the break-in to peek out the window before unlocking the door. Her brain, and her blood, did a little snap and sizzle when she saw Max.
    Instinctively she looked down, in disgust, at her oldest jeans, her bare feet, the ancient gray sweatshirt. She’d yanked her hair back in a short tail that morning and hadn’t bothered with makeup.
    “Not exactly the look I wanted to present to the man I considered getting naked with at the first reasonable opportunity,” she said to Henry. “But what’re you gonna do?”
    She pulled open the door and ordered herself to be casual. “Max. This is a surprise. How’d you find me?”
    “I asked. You okay? I heard about . . .” He trailed off, his gaze tracking down to her knees. “Henry? Well, that’s about the homeliest dog I’ve ever seen.” A big grin split his face when he said it, and it was hard to take offense as he crouched down to dog level and aimed the grin at the dog.
    “Hey, big guy, how’s it going?”
    Most, in Laine’s experience, were at least initially intimidated by the dog. He was big, he was ugly, and when he was growling in his throat, he sounded dangerous. But Max was already holding a hand out, offering it for a sniff. “That’s some bad face you’ve got there, Henry.”
    Obviously torn between terror and delight, Henry inched his snout forward, took some testing whiffs. His tail whapped the back of Laine’s knees before he collapsed, rolled and exposed his belly for a rub.
    “He has no pride,” Laine stated.
    “Doesn’t need any.” Max became the newest love of Henry’s life by giving the soft belly a vigorous rub. “Nothing like a dog, is there?”
    First there’d been lust, she thought, naturally enough. Then interest and several layers of attraction. She’d