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reach by then.
    “You were okay, too, weren’t ya?” Kayla had asked then. “Nothing bad happened to you?
     When you disappeared, I worried.”
    Even now, a wave of heat swept over April at the memory of how she’d “disappeared”
     into that alley, and she couldn’t attribute it to the Miami temperatures. “Sure,”
     she’d said softly into the phone. “I was okay. Nothing bad happened.”
    But as she listened to the sound of her own heels clicking up the sidewalk, and to
     the vague yet sharp melody of Latin music echoing from a club she’d just passed, she
     was pulled back in time to that night.
Had
something bad happened to her? She still couldn’t decide. And was she okay? She liked
     to think she was, but the fact that she could still feel those kisses so keenly bothered
     her. It had been a week, after all. The memory should be fading.
    And worse . . . Lord, even now, the spot between her legs wept with a harsh desire
     she barely recognized in herself, just from remembering. His tight hold on her. His
     brusque tone. The roughness of kisses that she’d somehow felt rush through the entire
     length of her body.
    It was a highly unusual experience, so of course it’s going to stick with you a while.
     It would stick with any woman, but you in particular, after not having been kissed
     in so long—well, of course a weird interlude like that is going to affect you.
    And yet even when she tried to explain away the fact that the encounter still lingered
     with her, it wasn’t just the lingering that bothered her. She knew that. It was . . .
     it was . . . oh hell, it was the part of it that she couldn’t quite admit to herself.
     It was . . . how much she’d liked it. And not just being kissed. It was how much she’d
     liked . . . being manhandled, being held so tightly, having no choice. Good God, the
     truth was that she’d liked . . . being forced.
    So there. You did it. You admitted it to yourself.
    And the result? As she continued up the street, her body literally wept with desire.
     Her panties were soaked with her own arousal. With somehow . . . wanting more of that.
    You must be insane. Who are you? How could you possibly want a man you don’t even
     know to force you to kiss him? Or . . . more.
    Suddenly it was hard to take a deep breath. She was a smart, together woman. She didn’t
     need romance in her life. Or sex. She was logical and sensible and always had been.
     And men like Juan Gonzalez, who used his brute strength to control his wife and probably
     any other woman who got in his way, were animals. Lower than animals. They made her
     sick.
    And yet she, April Pediston, wanted a man to force his attentions on her?
    Suddenly, the Miami air around her thickened, making it difficult to breathe. She
     couldn’t even begin to make sense of her own emotions, her own yearnings. No wonder
     she hadn’t wanted to admit this to herself—it was unthinkable. Almost unbearably so.
    Overcome by heat in a flash, she stopped, unbuttoned her suit jacket, took it off.
     A delicious sea breeze cooled her at the precise second she needed it most, wafting
     across South Beach to reach her. Glancing down, she saw that the silk cream-colored
     tank she wore clung to her from the heat, and at the moment, it added to all the strange
     sensations pummeling her. In particular, the way the clingy material accentuated her
     breasts made her feel sexual, reminding her once more how very aware of them she’d
     become just since the brusque mystery man had pulled her blouse closed over them.
     The way the fabric slid slick against her stomach, her sides, felt almost like being . . .
     touched. The man in the alley had left her feeling more cognizant of her body, her
     skin, than anything had in a very long time.
    And that was when she saw it. The scene of the crime. Without quite realizing it,
     she’d come upon the Café Tropico again.
    She hadn’t even thought about that—that