Through force of will she matched his casualness. “Yes, that’s all.” As he walked away, Rachel knew she’d never be anything to him other than as the loopy librarian. Unless…“Mark?”

He turned back impatiently. “Yeah?”

“I will think about apologizing to Devin.”

He nodded in approval; she basked in it all the way to the parking lot.

She’d always had one imperative for her son. To keep him safe. And that hadn’t changed.

If the only way to Mark was through Devin Freedman, then so be it.

In the driver’s seat of her Honda hatchback, she passed a hand over her face, suddenly exhausted. She felt as if she was on a teeter-totter, up one minute, down the next. For years she’d worked hard to achieve serenity. Her childhood had held no security…even the long periods of relative peace were the only uneasy calm before an impending storm.

As an adult she’d organized her life into neat compartments. Now the drawer was a jumble again.

She needed to start thinking smarter. Apologizing wasn’t a fix; somehow she had to scrutinize that damn man. Then she could judge him herself.

An idea occurred to her and she grew thoughtful. If she befriended the rocker, then Mark’s attitude would soften toward her, providing an opportunity to get to know her son.

Not quite the threesome Devin had had in mind when he’d tried to shock her. Rachel chuckled. She’d thought of a way to get what she wanted and extract a little revenge on Mr. Rock Star.

The next day when Devin called across the library, “When are you going to put me out of my misery, Heartbreaker?” Rachel smiled.

“Right now.”

THINKING HE’D MISHEARD, Devin moved closer. “Excuse me?”

Rachel beamed at him. “I’m saying yes to a date. Well, really, it’s a way of apologizing for hurting your feelings last week.”

Hurting his…Okay, now he knew she was joking. “I realize I was out of line,” she continued earnestly, “and this is my way of making it up to you.”

Devin folded his arms, leaned on the counter and waited for the punch line. And waited.

“How does tonight sound?”

Good God, she was serious. He was so flummoxed he couldn’t think of an excuse. “Umm…”

“Seven o’clock suit you?” Without waiting for a response, she wrote it in her diary in neat script.

“Look, this really isn’t necessary. No hard feelings.”

“No, I insist. And my goodness, you need a reward for all that persistence. Which is sweet of you, incidentally.”

Devin winced. “The word sweet should only be applied to situations involving whipped cream and a supermodel,” he said, and sparked a frown from her. His confusion gave way to suspicion. Wait a minute. The librarian didn’t want to date him any more than he wanted to date her. This was counterterrorism. Intrigued, he decided to beat her at her own game.

“Give me your address,” he drawled. “I’ll pick you up.”

“Maybe it’s better if we meet at the restaurant.”

“Except I’m still deciding where to take you.”

Reluctantly, Rachel found a piece of paper and wrote down her address.

“You know, I’m kinda nervous about this,” he said as he accepted it. “Given your reputation as a heartbreaker and all.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, I had decided not to date until I’d got that situation under control. Are you sure you want to take the risk?”

“Hmm, good point.” He rubbed his chin. “Maybe I should reconsider…”

Something oddly like panic clouded her expression. It was as if she really cared about this. Then she leaned forward and said softly, “Chicken?”

Devin chuckled. There were so many lessons he could teach this woman. Specifically, never take on a hell-raiser. Even reformed ones were dangerous. “Go ahead,” he dared, “break my heart.”

CHAPTER SIX

THE LIBRARIAN’S neighborhood was made up of immaculately restored colonial cottages, each with pocket-handkerchief front yards full of lavender and standard roses. Figured, Devin thought.

Few had garages, so everyone parked on the street, which meant he had to leave his car a mile down the road and walk. Having been raised in L.A., he bitterly resented it.

He also seriously resented being nervous. It wasn’t that he was hot for the librarian, simply that this was his first date ever without the social lubricant of alcohol.

Devin found number eight. The house was the same as every other except instead of being painted cream or white like its neighbors, it was honeysuckle-yellow and the garden was a subtropical jungle of banana palms, black flaxes, and orange and red canna lilies. He was picking up way too much plant lore from his mother. A well-used mountain bike was chained to the old-fashioned porch railing.

Sucker. She gave you the wrong address. Why hadn’t he seen that coming? He was about to turn away when the door was flung open. “You’re forty minutes late,” said Rachel. “I’d just about given you up.”

Devin checked his Hauer. She was right. “Timekeeping’s never been my strong point.” He saw she expected an apology, and shrugged. “Sorry… So your roommate owns this place?”

“I live alone. You know, I tried ringing the number you gave me-” her gaze traveled from his Black Sabbath T-shirt down to his slashed stone-washed jeans “-but there was no answer.”

“The number goes to a message service. Only close friends get my direct line.” She actually had to think about why. Hello, I’m famous. He caught himself. Channeling his egotistical brother. Ouch. “Ready to go?” he asked politely.

“I was beginning to think you’d stood me up,” Rachel confessed. “It felt like the high school ball all over again.”

So the librarian had insecurities. “Yeah? What happened?”

Her expression shut faster than a poked clam. “I’ll just get my cardigan.”

Cardigan? He might not be a hell-raiser anymore but Devin valued his reputation. “Haven’t you got anything sexy?”

“Yes,” said Rachel. “My mind.”

Fortunately, the cardigan was a clingy black number and it did have the advantage of covering another hideous buttony blouse. It was a shame Rachel didn’t do cleavage because she had great breasts. Turning from locking the front door, she caught the direction of his gaze and stiffened. Oh, great, now she probably thought he wanted her.

“Let’s take my car,” she said, pointing her remote.

Devin looked at the little silver hatchback emitting a high-pitched beep, and pulled out the keys of the Aston Martin he kept in town. “Let’s not.”

“So yours is parked close?” she inquired too damn innocently. For a moment they locked gazes.

“Fine,” he conceded. “But I’m driving.” He held his hand out for her keys, but her fingers tightened around them.

“I’ll drive… I don’t drink.”

“Neither do I.” When she looked skeptical, he added, “Anymore.”

An indefinable tension went out of her. She gave him the keys. “You don’t know how glad I am to hear that.”

“It figures you’d be an advocate of prohibition,” he commented as he opened the passenger door.

“I’ve noticed before that you typecast librarians,” she said kindly. “But as your experience of learning institutions is obviously quite new I’ll make allowances.”

Devin started to enjoy himself. “Now who’s stereotyping? Besides, if you don’t want to be seen as old-fashioned, you shouldn’t dress like that.”

He shut the door on her protest and crossed to the driver’s side. “I’ll have you know this is vintage,” she said as soon as he opened his door.

Devin folded himself into the ridiculously small interior. “I know what it is, I just don’t like it.”

“Is this how you usually talk to your dates?” she demanded.

“Actually,” he said, deadpan, “we don’t usually talk.”

Her lips tightened; she reached for her seat belt and Devin gave up on any expectation of fun. He turned the ignition and the engine spluttered into life. It sounded like a lawnmower on steroids. “I thought we’d drive into the city,” he said, “and wander around the Viaduct until a menu grabs us.”