“They have a hide-a-key box, you know.”

He peered down again at the woman below, his brow raised.

“Under the railing there.”

Uncertain whether to trust her—their date together had been one of the most miserable of his life—he swept his hand under the railing. Sure enough, there was a small metal box secured to the bottom. He removed the lid and out fell a key.

Well, how about that. He met the eyes of the woman downstairs, wondering why she was helping him.

As if she could read his mind, she said, “I owe Andy. Or, rather, Andy owes me. I hope tonight goes … exactly as it’s going to.” She smirked, and turned back to the door she’d emerged from.

He had a feeling that paybacks for being set up with him were the underscore of her aid. Nevertheless, he shouted down, “Thank you, JayLo.”

“Jaylene, shithead!”

Right, Jaylene. But he didn’t really care about his error at the moment. Right then the only thing he could think about was getting inside that apartment and working things out with Andrea. Though she hadn’t seemed very warm at the window, he hoped she’d be more amiable to him when they were face-to-face.

He took the key and slid it in the lock. Then he breathed out a silent prayer, turned the key, and twisted the knob.

The minute he opened the door, an orange cross trainer came at him. He ducked and it flew past him into the hall, just missing his shoulder. He looked back at Andy. Her eyes were blazing mad, her nostrils fuming. In her hand was the matching shoe. She drew her hand back and fired it at him.

Maybe it was going to take more work than he thought.

*   *   *

“Why are you throwing things at me?” Blake cowered behind the front door, yelling at her through the open crack.

She had to admit she got some satisfaction from the situation. Not enough, though. She wanted more. She wanted to seal all the cracks in her shattered heart with blood, sweat, and tears from Blake “Fuckshovel” Donovan. She was so mad, she’d even think that word, though maybe not say it aloud.

“Because you’re an idiot.” She’d already rolled up a magazine from the coffee table, preparing to launch it next.

“I don’t disagree in the slightest.” He actually sounded sorry.

But she was too wound up. Besides, she was sure he didn’t know what he was sorry for, and violence seemed much more satisfying than explaining it to him.

She waited until he poked his head around the door to fling the magazine. She narrowly missed his cheek.

Dammit. Why was she such a bad aim?

He flung the door open. “Jesus, Andy. That was close.”

“Not close enough.” She scoured the room for something else to throw and settled on her soda. “You’re also an egotistical, chauvinistic, self-centered ass-hat.” She double-checked she’d slugged down the last drop, then heaved it across the room. It landed a whole foot in front of her target.

A flash of a smile crossed Blake’s lips, but he recovered quickly. “You’ve always known these things about me. You didn’t seem to mind before.”

“Didn’t seem to…?” She was absolutely incredulous. She minded. She’d minded since she met him.

Hadn’t she?

Considering that she fell in love with him despite all his flaws, maybe she hadn’t minded as much as she thought. But she wasn’t telling him that. Plus throwing stuff felt really, really good. And who the hell did he think he was, absolving her of being pissed? She had every flipping right to be pissed. And defensive.

She swiped the TV remote off the couch and readied for the pitch. “You’ve broken into my house. I’m defending myself.”

She let the remote go.

Blake caught it midair.

Dammit all to China!

“Andrea, please stop.” He held his hands up, palms out in front of him as if to halt her from further bombardment.

“Fine.” She was out of things to throw anyway except couch pillows, and what kind of weapons were those? “Why are you here?”

“Can I come in?”

She shrugged, though honestly she’d rather have him come in than have Mrs. Brandy hear all her business. Also, she’d lost enough shoes to the man. Also, he was pretty even when he was groveling. She decided to stop also-ing.

Blake ventured in and shut the door behind him. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and flicked his eyes around the room. Luckily Lacy had done a quick pickup that afternoon or Andy might be embarrassed. Andy was not great at pickups. Double entendre intended.

Actually, no. She wouldn’t be embarrassed. Because she didn’t care about the asshole’s opinion. Not everyone was lucky enough to have a housekeeper and money and a perfect, petite soon-to-be bride.

Blake’s presence was certainly not helping her temper. Best to get him of her house—out of her life—as soon as possible.

She folded her arms over her chest and repeated her earlier question more pointedly. “Why. Are. You. Here. Blake. Mister Donovan.”

He caught her eyes and for half a moment she was falling into him again, losing herself in the dizzy chaotic trance he always put her in.

But then he spoke. “We need to talk.”

Yeah, they needed to talk at seven thirty that morning. Where was he then? Now she was past talking. “There is nothing that needs to be said.”

He cocked his head. “Obviously there is. You’re angry, and I’m not sure why.”

That pissed her off more than anything. Not only had he completely wrecked her in every way a woman could be wrecked, but he didn’t even have a clue. And if there was one thing a woman didn’t do it was explain her emotions to a man who should understand anyway. “My anger is my business. It wasn’t what brought you here in the first place, anyway. So whatever you came here for, spit it out.”

“All right.” He hesitated as if trying to decide exactly what to say. Which was odd. He’d come all that way to see her—didn’t he have an agenda?

Finally he said, “I have questions about Jane.”

“Seriously?” Her fury ticked up another notch. No, not a notch. It went a notch at a time, until it exploded the freaking meter. He came to ask about inane, stupid, usurping Jane? “I’m not your matchmaker anymore, Blake. You can find out anything you need to know about your girlfriend by asking her yourself.”

He removed his hand from his pocket and rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s not what … she’s not my girlfriend.”

Oh, yeah, fiancée was the term now. The word made her want to throw things again. Or puke. Or both. “Whatever she’s called. Talk to her yourself. I’m no longer your go-between. Now get out of my house. You shouldn’t be here.” She started toward him, ushering him out.

“Wait!” He threw his hands out again to stop her.

She scowled but nodded to indicate he could go on.

He began pacing in the confined space she was allowing him. “It’s not … I mean … There’s a lot to say and…” He stopped suddenly and pinned her with his interrogative gaze. “All the things that went wrong on our dates—that was you, wasn’t it?”

She scoffed. “No.” But inside she said, Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

Blake shook his head. “The missing wallet—you took it that afternoon, didn’t you? And the reservations—they weren’t lost—you never made them.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Also, she had no idea how she’d ever get a job in town again. She bit her lip. She was so screwed.

“You know you’re the worst liar.” Strangely, he didn’t seem all that mad.

“Look, Blake, I don’t … I didn’t … I’m not…” His lack of annoyance threw her balance. How should she address this? Come clean? Then he’d want to know why and that would be one big mess of humiliation. Maybe she could just dodge the whole thing.

She plastered on the sweetest smile that she could muster. “Does it matter now? Everything worked out between you two, so no harm, no foul.” Speaking of Jane … “Where is she anyway? Shouldn’t you be with her tonight?”