Her Sexiest Mistake

Back off, sucker.

When he got into the key, he passed the ball to his brother in a bulletlike throw, and the shot was made.

'Yeeeesl' Kevin said, looking extremely satisfied.

Whopping and high-fiving ensued, and some manly butt-slapping, leaving Mia to assume game over, victory declared.

Kevin grabbed the ball and executed some sort of victory dance, and deep within Mia something quivered. Oh, damn. Oh, damn, this was bad, bad, bad.

Despite his easygoing demeanor, he was a fellow hard-core competitor.

How sexy was that?

Kevin swiped a towel over his face. His shirt was stuck to him, his arms and throat gleaming. He had a bruise gathering beneath one eye and a cut on his lip. And he was smiling, as if he'd just had the time of his life. His brother nudged his shoulder, and they began a conversation.

With their hands.

The brother was deaf. No big deal, but the sight of them, eloquently and easily signing, felt addicting. Even knowing she was invading their privacy, Mia stood there transfixed by their quickly moving hands, their fast smiles, the easy affection…

Then Kevin brushed his hand over his brother's hair, messing it up, rubbing his knuckles over his head in the affectionate age-old noogie.

The brother tossed back his head, his mouth carved in a laughing smile, then pushed away and walked off. Kevin watched him go, his smile fading, replaced by an expression of worry and concern.

Mia's smile faded, too, and she wondered what she'd missed.

Then suddenly Kevin turned his head and saw her. The hand holding the towel dropped to his side. His worry and concern faded, replaced by an expression she was fairly certain could be read as annoyance.

She would have winced, but she preferred not to show her hand, that being she felt something almost foreign- true regret at how she'd treated him this morning. But if she didn't like to repeat men, she really didn't like looking back, and so she turned away, moving up the sidewalk toward her house.

The evening had begun to cool. She couldn't believe nearly half an hour had passed since she'd parked, she'd gotten so lost in their game.

''Running. What a surprise,' he said.

Slowly she turned back to face the low, husky voice she knew so intimately, thanks to last night. Kevin must have hustled to catch up with her, and yet he wasn't even breathing hard. 'I'm not running,' she said.

'Yeah, you are. Well, as much as you can in those ridiculous heels, anyway.'

She looked down at her five-hundred-dollar Manolos. 'Ridiculous?'

'What's the hurry? Your cookies burning?'

No, but, oddly enough, now her face was.

'You didn't really make them, did you?'

'I never claimed I did.'

'It was implied. Among other things.'

'Like what?'

'Like-' But suddenly his eyes narrowed and he took a step closer to her, frowning as he lifted a hand and touched her singed eyebrow. 'What happened?'

She fought the urge to slap his hand away. 'Nothing an eyebrow pencil won't fix.' Turning away, she began to walk again, only to feel his fingers wrap around her arm and gently but firmly pull her back.

He peered into her face, so close now that she could see his eyes were more than light chocolate, but lined in dark as well, with specks of gold dancing in them. 'Stop staring,' she said and lifted a hand to cover her brow.

He simply took her wrist in his hand and held it out. 'You're burned. What did you do, catch yourself with a whatcha-call-it, a curling iron?'

'It's nothing.'

His other hand came up and gently probed at the sensitive skin, making her hiss. His eyes cut to hers. 'Nothing, huh?'

Her belly quivered. Hunger, she decided, but, damn it, deep down she knew it was his touch. He was waking up her body again, making it remember how wonderful and amazing and shockingly perfect last night had been. Trying to cover this unwelcome reaction to him, she shoved his hand away. 'Just a… work incident.' No big deal. She'd laughed it off countless times today with all the others at work, despite deep down remaining off balance about the 'suspicious' incident.

But having this man look at her with concern darkening his eyes had an effect she couldn't have possibly imagined: the odd urge to set her head down on someone's shoulder, someone who cared about her, someone who would tell her she was going to be okay.

Only she'd never had the luxury of someone else's shoulder in her entire life, and she wasn't going to start now.

'A work incident?' That frown still marred his lips. 'I thought you were some PR wizard.'

That almost made her smile. 'Advertising.'

'You kick some ass today, Mia Appleby, advertising exec extraordinaire?'

'You know it.' She cocked her head and studied him, blackening eye, cut lip, and all. 'You're looking a little worse for wear yourself.'

'Nah.' He pulled a face, then swore and lifted a hand to his lip. 'Shit.'

'Uh huh. You need help cleaning that up?'

He was now gingerly touching the blooming bruise, licking his cut lip. 'No, thanks. I'm still bleeding from our last encounter.'

'Suit yourself.' She began to back away but couldn't resist running her gaze over his face one last time. No, you can't have him again. 'You might want to give yourself a break from basketball for a day or so.'

'Are you kidding?' His eyes lit. 'We won.'

Her heart squeezed with competitive spirit. With lust. And more. She'd have to make sure to avoid the basketball courts. The entire street.

And especially his bedroom.

He touched his lip again, looked at the blood on his fingers, and shook his head. 'I'm losing my touch.'

Now that he was most definitely not doing, but before her thoughts could take her there she firmly walked away.

'See ya,' he said, only slightly mockingly. 'Or if you get your way, not.'

That's right. They would not be seeing each other. Keep walking. She managed it, too, and only when she'd taken the turn on the path, did she glance back.

He was gone.

Good. Perfect. Mission accomplished. She'd distanced herself from him both physically and mentally.

Only, oddly enough, the surge of victory never came.

***

Hope couldn't believe how insanely people drove in California, but finally she found Mia's street. The block was nice, and there was not a trailer park within miles, she'd bet.

Mia's place was Spanish style, with ceramic-tile roofs and stucco walls. It was barely dusk, but streetlights