‘ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE.’

Hugging myself against a chill, I paced the battered porch. What was I doing? Hadn’t the incident at the club proved we shouldn’t be alone?

Days later, I could still feel the ghost of Trace’s touch. Just the thought of his hands on my body made my nipples harden. I’d barely slept since that night, and the few hours I’d managed to catch were plagued with erotic visions of him…doing things to me.

So why was I here?

Because! I needed his help, that’s why. Given the sorry state of my feeble investigation, I’d run out of options. What choice did I have but to come to his house? Briar was out of the question, and we certainly couldn’t meet in public.

Trace ripped the front door open, flooding the porch with light. There he stood, an unsettling combination of heaven and hell poured into a tight black T-shirt and jeans that hung below his narrow hips in a way Auntie would’ve deemed vulgar.

We stared at each other for half an eternity as Ray Charles crooned, “You Don’t Know Me” from somewhere in the house.

“Take a wrong turn?” he asked, ice dancing in his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

His jaw worked. “Four days, two hours, and twenty-three minutes of sorry. You get my messages?”

I nodded in shame. “I just…”

“Got scared.”

My breath escaped in a misty cloud. “I should’ve called.”

“You think?” He studied me in angry silence for a time. “Lose the hood.”

“What?”

“The hood.” He nudged his chin. “Take it off.”

He was testing me. His ‘you’re ashamed of me’ look was unmistakable. So I did as he asked. I tugged it down. “Satisfied?”

Trace swung the door all the way open and his arm formed an arch. I studied the man-made entrance with caution, then ducked beneath it and went inside.

He kicked the door shut.

Unbuttoning my coat, I watched him lean against a wall, arms folded. It may have been my imagination, but he seemed to study me with the same lethal aloofness of a cat watching an unsuspecting mouse—right before the pounce.

To steady my frayed nerves, I concentrated on the beautiful living room. He was renovating. I smelled paint, and drop cloth draped the floor in the adjacent dining room, which he’d jammed with tools and supplies.

An ornate brass floor lamp stood attached to an extension cord that snaked down the hall to what I assumed was the kitchen. A cute tabletop Christmas tree, complete with tinsel, golden ornaments, and candy canes was propped on a twenty-five-inch TV. The pine floor had been polished to a high gloss. Beige paint with alabaster molding covered the walls. Stylish brass vent and outlet covers complemented the gilded vintage ceiling fan above them.

I gestured. “You’ve been busy.”

“Yeah. My shrink thought it’d be therapeutic.”

“You do good work.” I tore my eyes from his sullen face. “It’s beautiful.”

“But a far cry from the fancy digs you’re used to.”

It wasn’t said maliciously. In fact, there’d been a ring of humility in his tone that had almost bordered on apologetic.

“My tastes are simplistic,” I said. “I fell in love with a dilapidated Queen Anne Victorian, but I didn’t trust my instincts. I hesitated. Now it’s under contract.” I turned to him and sighed. “Speaking of which, I may have a job for you. The couple buying it needs a good carpenter. Can I give them your number?”

He hitched a shoulder. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“When do you think you’ll be finished here?”

“In a few months.” He lifted a brow. “Guess I’ll be needing a real estate agent.”

“Look no further.” I tried to smile, but it felt lame. What had happened at the club and my vanishing act screamed in his eyes. “So, do you have a place picked out or….”

“Naw.” He paused, then in a serious tone added, “I’m leaving Temptation the second my parole year is up. Sooner if I can get a transfer.”

My smile froze. He’s leaving? “Ah, th-that’s understandable. What, with everything that’s happened.”

“Exactly. There’s really nothin’ keeping me from going, is there?” He paused and cocked a brow, then said, “Cholly’s got his own life. Mama and Daddy are gone. Bev’s married, and if Cole ever gets out, I’ve got to find a way to help him—but not here. Not in this town.”

Fearing, dreading, I hesitated before asking, “Will you at least stay in West Virginia?” I cleared my suddenly dry throat. “Or will you move away?”

“What do you think?” He gave the room a fleeting glance. “Three tenants lived here over the past twelve months. When they heard about the suicides, they hauled ass. So selling this shack won’t be easy. Either way, I figure I’ll check out the West Coast. Maybe Washington state.”

It felt like he’d reached across the room and punched me in the stomach.

“You okay?” He looked worried.

I ran unsteady fingers beneath my throat scarf. “It’s a bit stuffy in here.”

Trace was way ahead of me. He peeled one of the newspaper curtains away and cracked open a window by the sofa. A cool blanket of air blew in. “Better?”

“Much.” I slipped my coat off and tugged the lamb’s wool scarf from my neck.

“How ‘bout a drink?”

God yes, preferably something strong. I draped my things over an armchair. “What do you have?”

He headed for the kitchen. “Beer. Jack Daniels. Herradura.”

“The latter will be fine. With ice.”

He swung a surprised look over his shoulder. “You know what Herradura is?”

I smoothed a hand along my skirt. “Tequila, right?”

“The best.”

He disappeared around the corner and I wilted onto the sofa. Heat ripped through my stomach.

He’s leaving. There it was again. That same cloying reaction.

No, I didn’t want him to go. But why? Well, he was a friend and I hadn’t seen him in over a decade. Why wouldn’t I feel sad?

What else?

Nothing else! His leaving was probably a good thing. There’d be no one to harass him or his friends. He’d be able to start over again with a clean slate. Perhaps if I kept telling myself this, I’d believe it.

Trace returned bearing a tray of drinks, including a bottle of Herradura and a Corona long neck. Two of the tray’s four glasses were filled with what looked like tomato juice.

He pushed a shot glass of tequila into my hand and settled in next to me.

“Wait a minute,” I said, “Why are you drinking when you’re still on parole?”

He half-smiled. “Providence. The watchdog they assigned me? We played varsity ball at Temptation High—me, him, and Cholly. Zander stayed in touch with me the whole time I was in stir. I’ve known him since forever, so….”

“He’s lenient.”

Trace snorted. “Yeah. You could say that. Zander gives me a head’s up whenever I’m due for a ‘surprise’ visit or a drug test. I just have to be discreet.”

He tipped the Corona to his lips, and as he drank, his throat worked in slow pulses. Condensation from the bottle dripped onto his neck, glistening along his Adam’s apple. Watching him, I sipped my tequila with care. The golden liquid was smooth on my tongue, but burned its way to my stomach. What I wouldn’t give for a lime.

As if he’d read my mind, Trace handed me one of the glasses with the red liquid. I set the empty shot glass back on the tray.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“You never had sangrita?”

“Sangria?”

“Naw, sangriTa. It means ‘little blood.’”

I examined the concoction warily. “What’s in it?”

He held his at eye level. Light glinted off the glass while he turned it this way and that. “Clamato, OJ, minced tomatoes and cucumber, lime, cilantro…uh…and grenadine and Tabasco sauce.” He nodded at me. “I made it myself.”

I glanced from the drink, to him, then back again before I sipped. Surprisingly, it was quite good. The taste enhanced the earthy tang of the tequila.

He cocked a brow. “You like?”