“What the hell happened?”

Still sitting on the desk, she could only shake her head. “He obviously had been drinking. He came back and caught me alone. It’s the first time he’s ever…I mean, he’s a creep, but I never thought he’d…”

“Maybe if you’d wear clothes that didn’t scream ‘do me’ men wouldn’t try.”

Bridget’s jaw dropped and she stared at him in shock. “What did you say to me?”

“Look at you,” he snapped, stepping closer. He pointed to her legs, still splayed open on the desk.

Bridget tried to jerk them back together, but Dean stepped between them before she could do it. With absolutely no warning, he plunged his hands into her hair and bent to cover her lips with his. He thrust his tongue in her mouth, tasting her, devouring her. His body was hard against hers, his hips between her thighs, and Bridget couldn’t even try to deny the absolute flood of heat that roared through her in response.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, tilting her head to kiss him back just as deeply. And for a long, heady moment, they made crazy, wild love with their mouths.

Then the moment ended. Dean let her go and staggered back a few steps. “Bridget, I’m…”

She put her hand up, palm out, to stop him. Sliding off the desk, she straightened her skirt and said, “Don’t. Okay? Just don’t say anything. I wanted that. Maybe I needed it just so I could wash Ted out of my memory. I didn’t exactly jump up there and part my legs-he pushed me.”

Dean instinctively swung his head to look at the door, that tense rage returning.

“He’s long gone. Thank you for coming in when you did.”

He ran both hands through his hair, his anger finally draining away. “I’ll take care of him, Bridget.”

“Marty will deal with him.” She stepped closer, offering him a tremulous smile. Because now there was no doubt that Dean’s interest in her was one of more than friendship. That kiss-and his body’s hard, instinctive reaction to it-told her he wanted more. Maybe as much as she did. “I guess that makes you my hero, huh?”

Dean stared at her, his eyes softening, the tension easing. Reaching for her, he pulled her into his arms. But this time, he didn’t attempt to kiss her. His embrace was pure, sweet comfort. He held her tightly, running his hand up and down her back. “I’m sorry. Sorry for what he did…sorry for what I said.”

“It’s all right. You were angry.” Tilting her head back, she smiled up at him. “I thought it was kinda sexy.”

For a second-a brief one-she thought he was going to smile back. To laugh, then lower his mouth to hers and kiss her again, gently this time.

But it didn’t happen. Instead, Dean sighed heavily and his mouth drew tight. “I’m also sorry for kissing you. I should never have done that.”

“I’ve been wanting you to…”

He put his hand up to stop her. “Don’t. It was a mistake, Bridget. A big one. And it won’t be repeated.”

She gasped, unable to believe he was rejecting her. Again.

“What is your problem?” she asked, completely indignant.

He just shook his head. “I don’t have a problem. I just can’t…don’t want…hell, Bridget, this just can’t happen.” As if needing to convince himself, as much as her, he reiterated.

“It won’t happen.”

WHEN NICK MANAGED to get through another evening at Leather and Lace without watching her dance, Izzie got a little nervous. She didn’t want to ask him about it over the next few nights since they were having such an amazing time doing wildly sensual things to one another. But she couldn’t help wondering.

On Sunday night, he’d been too busy to watch her dance. Or so he’d claimed. He’d conveniently had to go put out another fire in the club every time she was scheduled to go on.

Suspicious. She didn’t want to be, but she was.

He’d said he could handle it…but he wasn’t acting like he even wanted to try.

It wasn’t that she didn’t understand. In fact, putting herself in his shoes, she’d have to say she’d probably have a major problem with other women looking at her naked man with covetous eyes, thinking of ways they could have that incredible body and handsome face.

Her man. Her man? Oh, God, had he somehow become her man?

Sitting in her apartment, she realized that yes, at some point in recent weeks, Nick had become her man.

Maybe it had been when he’d made love to her in the back of the van. Or when he’d cared for her after she’d fallen in her dressing room. Maybe it was because of his sexy smile and the intimate way he watched her when he thought no one was looking.

Maybe it was even because of the way she’d felt every single time she’d woken up in his arms.

Those pre-dawn moments. Yeah. They’d probably done it.

Because each time it had happened-whether at his apartment, or hers, she’d had to lie there and watch him sleep. Study the line of his jaw and the curve of his cheek. Wonder how a man could have such a sensuous mouth and still be so damned tough. Note the small scars on his body, and his tattoo, and grieve for the things he must have gone through as a soldier.

Yes. In those moments, her heart had opened up. And she’d let him in just as surely as she’d let him in her body.

There were moments when she allowed herself not to care. To even consider whether they could make this crazy relationship of theirs work. Maybe a masked wedding…the Crimson Rose and the sexy night watchman.

That was so lame.

But it was no more crazy to think about than the idea of an official union between Izzie Natale and Nick Santori of Taylor Street.

“Would that really be so bad?” she whispered. She’d been telling herself it would, but at moments like this, she had a hard time remembering why.

“I need sugar,” she mumbled as she headed for her kitchen, dying for something sweet. She’d been so good at the bakery and tried to resist temptation, so she never brought any of that stuff home. At moments like these, though, she regretted it.

Nick had called a while ago, saying he’d be leaving the pizzeria in an hour and would come by. She glanced at her watch, wondering if she had time to run to the corner market. She was so desperate she’d go for a packet of Ho Hos at this point.

Before she could grab her shoes and dash for something to binge on, her cell phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID and recognizing the New York City number, she immediately began to smile, now knowing another sure-fire way to escape-at least mentally-from her troubles.

“V!” she exclaimed as she answered.

“Girl-friend!” was the reply. “It has been for-evah, where have you been?”

Plopping down on the sofa, Izzie kicked her feet up and leaned back, so happy to hear a voice from her old life, she wondered if fate had sent Vanessa’s call as some kind of mental gift. Vanessa was a good friend from her Rockette days. The striking, long-legged African American woman had been Izzie’s roommate on the road and the two of them had hit it off from their very first hotel stay, when they’d both decided to call for room service French fries at two in the morning, despite the matron’s orders to go to sleep by eleven o’clock.

“I’m still in Chicago.”

“Still doing that bakery thing?” Vanessa asked, sounding completely shocked. “I can’t believe you’ve lasted this long.”

“Join the club. I sometimes forget I haven’t spent the past seven years with my arms in cookie dough up to my elbows.”

“How’s your father?

“Getting better every day, already pestering my mother to let him go back to work.”

“That’s great. And as soon as he does you can quit.”

Yes, she could. Why that idea would send a shot of sadness through her, Izzie didn’t know. It wasn’t as if she liked working at the bakery. Even if she had made friends with all the staff, gotten on a first-name basis with their restaurant clients and the regulars who stopped in every day for breakfast.