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want to accidentally get too attached to a rich, tough playboy who would probably just fuck and run.
    Too quickly, we make it to the front of my complex.
    “So, um…” I say, and trail off. I want him to ask to come up. I don’t want to be the one to ask. I thought this was a bad idea to start with. I don’t want to look desperate. I don’t want him to know how goddamn attracted to him I am, how quickly he won. I-
    “April,” Liam says, and pauses.
    My body feels like it’s on fire. I’m suddenly very aware of my nipples rubbing against the cups of my bra. The seams of my jeans hugging my hips. The way my panties are pressing into me… I feel wet already.
    He leans forward and presses his lips to mine, softly. His lips are warm, the puff of his breath is electric. His chest pressing against my breasts feels amazing. My pussy aches.
    “I —”
    “Goodnight, April.”
    My breath goes out of me in a whoosh. That’s it. Good. I guess.
    “Goodnight, Liam.”
    I head up the stairs quickly so I don’t have to watch him walking down the street, and throw myself onto my bed, my whole body hot and shaking.
    This is an unmitigated disaster. How did I let this happen?

5
    Liam
    E very nerve feels like it’s on fire. April is the best lead anyone’s ever gotten on Devlin Sullivan.
    And my cock is hard as a rock just thinking about her.
    I don’t know if it’s the danger, or the way her bottom lip puckers out when she locks eyes with me. It’s like she’s just begging me to kiss it. Begging to wrap it around my…
    Yeah. I’ve got a massive hard-on for my lead.
    Not a good situation.
    I walk briskly away, hoping the cool night air will help calm things down.
    April Fitzpatrick. Not Bluebird. Something has been tickling the back of my brain since she told me that. Suddenly something clicks, and a crazy thought leaps into my head.
    I text Vicente: What was the dead wife’s name?
    Always the consummate workaholic, Vicente texts me back immediately: Caitlyn Fitzpatrick.
    Shit.
    I tap out: Can you look up head-shots?
    Sure. You got a lead?
    I’ve got a lead, alright: April is Devlin Sullivan’s daughter. I’m 90% certain. Fitzpatrick isn’t a completely unique name, but it’s not that common. And she’s fronting his shop — at the very least, there’s no way the crime lord is unaware that there’s a girl with his late wife’s name running one of his laundering operations.
    And someone called the shop urging her to attend a party, and from what I can tell, for business purposes.
    It’s very likely that Devlin Sullivan just had a conversation with his daughter right in front of me. And I missed it.
    I briskly walk to one of Vicente and my meeting points, texting him as I go.
    Lead is good. We’ve hit the jackpot, potentially. Meet me at Copley Park.
    I’ve got him. Devlin Sullivan’s daughter, his own flesh and blood. At my mercy. This is exactly what we need to not only track down his location, but force his hand, bring him in. Take down one of the most intractable crime organizations, too. This collar could dismantle a third of the drug trafficking infrastructure in Boston. I’ll be a hero, and earn the biggest bounty this city has ever seen.
    And April will lose her father.
    For a split second, I imagine her tear-rimmed lashes, her downturned head.
    Whatever. He’s a criminal. That’s not her fault – unless, of course, she knows – but she will be collateral damage. That’s his fault. That’s just bad parenting. Not my fault, either. Even though I’m the one feeding information to the FBI.
    I can’t follow that line of thinking. Not too far. And anyway, Vicente is here.
    I can see him googling furiously as he approaches. He’s excited, I can tell, though he always tries to stay cool and collected.
    “Here,” he says triumphantly, flashing his phone in my face.
    It’s a picture of a pale, redheaded woman with exactly April’s eyes and the same sly smile, the same sharp jawline.
    “Yeah,” I