Chapter 2

CHAPTER

TWO

Saverio

I clean both sides of the blade with two quick swipes on Lewis's coat sleeve and straighten in the same movement. Unlike Giorgio, I'm agile and light on my feet. I'm a faster runner. That's why he lets me go after the woman. That motherfucker, Lewis, had a panic button in his hand. In less than five minutes, the cops will be like ants over the place. Getting rid of the body is no longer an option. Giorgio understands this. He gathers Lewis's briefcase, gives me a nod, and hurries to the end of the alley to make himself scarce while I sprint to the top.

I snatch up the phone the woman with the long copper-colored curls dropped and slip it in my pocket before going after her. She hasn't gotten far. She's pumping her elbows as she heads toward the only bar that's open at this hour. Her sling bag slips from her arm and falls on the sidewalk, but she doesn't stop to retrieve it. She dares a glance over her shoulder, and when she sees I'm fast gaining ground, her expression transforms with terror.

She doubles her effort, nearly tripping in the process and only righting herself at the last minute. I grab her bag without breaking my stride, winding the strap around my fist. Automatically, I tighten my hold on the knife in my other hand. She tries, but at little over five feet and not much heavier than a hundred pounds, she's no match for me. My longer legs easily eat up the distance between us. Before she's made it four hundred yards, I'm breathing down her neck. One more step, and she's within reach.

Grabbing her upper arm, I break her run. The momentum flings her sideways, slamming her back against the wall. A soft puff escapes her lips as the air is knocked from her lungs. The strap of the bag is caught between my palm and her bicep, the buckle pressing into my flesh. I'm on her in a blink, pinning her frame against the bricks while swinging the strap of her bag over my shoulder to free my hand. My weight alone is enough to keep her in place, but the fingers I wrap around her throat and the tip of the knife I push against her belly are automatic reflexes that come from years of street fighting.

Like earlier, she freezes, her chin tipped up and the back of her head resting against the wall as she stares at me with wide, whisky-colored eyes. The streetlight washes over her, illuminating her features. From up close, I can make out the freckles on her nose and cheeks. That waterfall of fiery curls frames a small oval face. She's a delicate, exotic creature, more beautiful than a fragile little winged fairy.

I catalog the visual clues with a quick, practiced glance. Her shift dress and cardigan are humble. The thread is cheap. The matching set reminds me of supermarket clothing, yet on her, it's pretty. Paired with ballerina style flats, she pulls off a cute look. The soft soles of her shoes explain why I didn't hear her coming. My senses are always sharp.

I home those senses in on her now, taking in every little detail. She smells fresh, like someone who just stepped out of the shower. Standing flush against her, the difference in our height is even more apparent. Her chin barely reaches my collarbone. Her body is small and her bones are fragile. Her life is vulnerable. I hold it in my hands.

The knowledge flows between us in a quiet stare, a myriad of emotions transmitted in the flash of a second without a single word spoken. The pulse in her throat flutters under my palm. The wild gallop of her heart penetrates my breastbone and echoes in my chest. In this moment, as I become the master of her fate, her heart beats only for me.

For the first time in my life, I know what it feels like to own a life. It's different than killing. Giving isn't the same as taking. The knowledge is intoxicating. It stalls me. The rush goes straight to my head, and as I lean closer, trapping the blade between us, all the blood that pumps with something other than adrenaline through my veins goes straight to my cock.

I grow hard against her soft belly. She feels it. Her big, stunning eyes grow even rounder with the knowledge.

Fuck me.

Who would've guessed I'd be into this? I never realized I was such a twisted, kinky son of a bitch. Then again, it's the first time I hold a woman at knife point. Although, it's not the knife kink. It's not the blade. And it's not her fear. Well, not only. It's the control. It's knowing that in this well-lit corner of a dark street I am her god. Whether she breathes or utters her last sound for me and for my ears alone is entirely at my whim. She's a clever girl. She reads me well. The realization dawns in her eyes as she watches me with terrified uncertainty.

I allow myself to indulge in the fantasy just for a moment, imagining how I'd make her kneel and worship her god. I won't have to wine and dine her. I won't have to indulge in fruitless conversations. I won't have to meet her family and make promises I never intend to keep. The best part is that I don't have to trust her, because for as long as I live, I'll never trust a woman again. All I have to do is command her.

That's when I know.

I'm not going to kill her.

She must sense the change in me. The moment my focus shifts from killer to predator, she slams her palms on my chest and fights to push me off her, not that her efforts shift me an inch. I let her try, enjoying her fight, perhaps a little too much. It's adorable how she punches a fist on my ribs, hoping to inflict damage.

At the same time she lifts her arm and tries to knock my hand from her throat, the door of the bar opens. We both still, our gazes locked in another quiet spell as more knowledge courses between us. She thinks she's saved. I know exactly what she's going to do even before she opens her mouth and sucks in a breath. Before she has time to let out the scream, I crush our mouths together. I swallow her sounds and her gasp, stealing inside her mouth with my tongue.

She turns rigid in my hold. Using the advantage of the surprise, I plunder her mouth like a greedy thief falling on a treasure. Her breath is warm and sweet. She tastes like strawberries and addiction. She's too shocked to fight me. Just in case she gets that idea into her head, I make sure she feels the sharp edge of the knife on the soft mound of her stomach, and this time, I'm not playing, not with the knife and not with the kiss.

The subdued but deadly violence that still courses through my blood dictates my actions as I kiss her with meaning. It makes me harder. I kiss her like I've never kissed another woman, not even Rachele. It doesn't have to be rough to be intense. Somehow, the gentleness with which I explore the shape of her tongue and the contours of her lips is much more explosive. Much more threatening. If I'm not careful, I could easily get carried away, but I'm always careful. I'm always in control. Even as I eat her lips, I do it with single-minded purpose. And even as I thoroughly enjoy her taste, I take stock of the people who spill out of the bar onto the sidewalk. The weapon is hidden between us, the blade cold against her warm body. For all the passersby know, I've got my hand between her legs. I could be fingering her right here in the open.

A guy wolf whistles. While the boisterous group disperse into different directions, I kiss her like this is my last kiss, and it's not just to shut her up.

This kiss is different.

This kiss seals a deal.

"Is that you, Anya?" someone asks in a croaky voice.

I tear my lips from the little fairy's mouth, noticing with no small measure of satisfaction how her pink lips glisten from my kiss, and cut my gaze toward the intruder.

An old lady dressed in a frilly blouse and a pencil skirt stands next to us. Her gray hair is piled in soft curls on her head, and her lips are painted knockout pink. The long string of pearls that's twisted in several loops around her throat must weigh down her neck. A whiff of rosewater reaches my nostrils.

"Oh, it is you," she says, arranging the strap of a patent leather handbag over her forearm. A mischievous smile creases her face. "I see you finally followed my advice and caught yourself a juicy dish to break your dry spell."

"Indeed," I say with a chuckle, phrasing that as a question directed at my prey.

"Livy," Anya chokes out, her cheeks flushing a pretty shade of apricot either from fear or embarrassment. "What are you doing here?"

Anya. I like it. It's a pretty name.

Livy frowns. "I had my nightcap at the bar." She scrutinizes Anya. "As I do every night. You know that." Casting a curious look at me, she asks, "Aren't you going to introduce me to your hunk?"

I press the flat end of the blade harder against my captive's stomach, making sure she gets the message while ensuring I don't cut her.

"I—" Anya swallows.

"Saverio De Luca," I say. "My friends call me Sav."

Anya sags a little in my hold as if the mere sound of my name steals her strength. I guess she didn't want to know that.

"Olivia Simmons," the old lady replies. "My friends call me Livy." She winks at Anya. "Were you out on a date?"

I glide my hand from Anya's neck down the front of her body before curling my fingers in an iron grip around her narrow hip. "I was just walking Anya home."

"In that case, you won't mind walking an old lady home too."

Catching Livy's gaze, Anya gives an inconspicuous shake of her head.

Bad girl . I tighten my grip on her in warning.

"Seeing that we live in the same building," Livy adds sweetly.

"Yes," I drawl. "We'll definitely walk you." Testing the sound of her name on my tongue, I add, " Anya and I insist on seeing you home safely."

Anya's breath catches on an almost inaudible hitch. Yeah. She doesn't want me to know where she lives. She mistakenly believed the witnesses who peeled out of the bar would scare me away and save her. She'll learn quickly that nothing I care to know stays a secret from me for long and that no one is ever safe from me.

Livy bats her eyelashes. "You're such a gentleman." She motions at Anya's bag. "Oh, look at that. You're even carrying her bag for her. It makes me think of those romantic pictures of couples who walk hand in hand with the woman's shoes dangling from the man's fingers." She lowers her voice. "Next time, get a room instead of making out in the street. No one can argue that passion knows no time and has no manners." She leans closer. "However, a gentleman should always think about a lady's honor."

With that reprimand directed at me, she turns up her nose and waltzes down the street.

I slip the knife into the sheath strapped around my waist and tuck Anya against my side. "Let's go, tesoro ." When she resists, hanging back as I take the first step, I lower my head and brush a whisper over her ear. "You don't want Livy to get hurt, do you? She seems like a very sweet old woman."

Fear bleeds into her eyes, making them sparkle like amber garnet. She cares about the old lady. There was complicity in the familiarity with which Livy addressed her. Anya isn't going to do anything that could get her friend hurt. No, she walks obediently next to me, albeit with a stiff back and stilted steps.

We don't go far. A few hundred yards farther down, Livy unlocks the door of a Greek Revival style apartment building, letting us into a small lobby that's decorated with art deco furniture.

Turning to me, she says, "This is where I leave you. I'm on the first floor. Have a good night, kids. You don't have to worry about the sound. The walls are thick."

Anya makes a choking sound.

I bid the old lady good night. When she's gone through a door that leads to a hallway, I turn to Anya. Save for those freckles that are scattered like tiny golden stars over her nose and cheeks, her complexion is flawless. Under the bright overhead light, her youth is undeniable in the smooth, porcelain quality of her unblemished skin and the unspoiled innocence in those captivating eyes. Her pupils are pinpoints of black in a sea that resembles the color of liquor. Of sin. A man can drown in those pools and in the generous curves of her body. She's not a day older than twenty-three. Like I said, young. Definitely too young for me. And I don't mean just in age. She's too young in everything that matters—in experience, in the uglier side of the world, and in the darker desires of men.

Leaning closer, I inhale her scent. She smells like summer—like flowers and sunshine. It suits her. It goes with the warm hue of her hair and the candied taste of her lips.

She bends backward, escaping my proximity.

I don't let her get away. I step right into her space, catching her around the waist. We're poised like dancers, and I already look forward to doing this tango with her.

"Which floor, tesoro ?"

Her slender throat moves gracefully as she swallows. "Why?"

Fuck, this woman will make the simple act of drinking appear sensual.

A siren sounds in the distance.

I pull her upright, testing her balance before setting her free. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Mistrust and panic spark in her eyes, but she doesn't falter in holding my gaze.

Clever, brave girl. Still, she should learn to obey.

I make my voice hard. "Now, Anya."

She jumps. "Second floor."

Taking her elbow, I guide her down the short hallway and up the staircase. The closer we get to the top, the harder she strains in my hold.

I stop. "Anya."

At my tone, she stills.

Pulling my jacket open, I show her the knife. "Must I pay Livy a visit?"

She pales further. This time, she doesn't resist when I lead her onto a landing with two doors. I'm done asking. I don't believe in wasting my breath. Instead, I wait.

She points at the door on the left.

I push her ahead of me and place her in the corner so that my body cuts off her exit while I go through her bag for her key. Going through a woman's handbag is like peering into her soul. A bitter memory of French perfume and foil packets of condoms beneath crumpled wads of cash pierces my mind. Yes, I was the asshole who did that, the man who invaded Rachele's privacy by going through her handbag and her phone.

As soon as the thought forms, I wipe it away. This is Anya's bag, and there are no rubbers and drugs and more money than most people earn in a year carelessly scrunched up between high-end label lipstick and mascara. There's only a small purse, lip balm, a foldable toothbrush and toothpaste, and a packet of strawberry flavored gum.

More sirens blare outside. The walls aren't as thick as Livy claimed.

After pulling out a keychain with a plastic sunflower ornament, I lift my face to hers. "Alarm?"

She shakes her head, trembling like a little mouse that's trapped by a cat in her corner.

I already know from what Livy said that Anya isn't living with anyone in a romantic sense. More than suiting me, the fact pleases me. She may have a roommate or family though.

"Do you live with someone?" I ask.

She shakes her head again.

Good.

I unlock the door and push her inside before locking it behind me. Holding onto her arm, I flick on the light. A small entrance opens into a spacious living area with a kitchen on the left and a lounge on the right. The minute I let her go, she escapes to the far side of the room where she hovers without taking her eyes off me while I inspect the space.

Like the lobby, the apartment is a showcase of good taste and expensive fittings. Whatever she does for a living, she must earn a pretty penny. These apartments don't come cheap, especially not in this area. I'm tempted to linger in my evaluation, but I have to content myself with taking everything in with a quick glance—the hardwood floors, the south facing windows with the river view, and the stainless-steel appliances in the kitchen.

Leaving her bag on the bar counter that divides the kitchen and the lounge, I ask, "Where were you tonight?"

"Why?" she asks, her one-word question breathless.

"What were you doing before you saw what happened downstairs?"

She wraps her arms around herself. "I was working."

I raise a brow. "That late?"

"I needed to finish something," she says with hint of animosity. "What's this? An interrogation? I don't have to explain myself or where I've been to you."

Her anger is endearing. She's got spirit. I let the rebellious remark slide. "Where do you work?"

"Mr. Lewis was my boss," she spits out.

I still. "You work at Lewis's firm?"

At the reminder of him, some of her bravado slips. "Yes."

"Doing what?"

"Junior accountant."

"That's unfortunate," I say, meaning it. If she'd worked anywhere else, she wouldn't have walked in on something she was never supposed to see. "He obviously paid well." I motion at the room. "Junior accountants don't usually earn enough to afford a place like this."

"Why did you kill him?" she asks in a tremulous voice.

I don't have to share any facts with her, but for what I'm about to put her through, she deserves the truth. "He stole from us."

"From you?"

"From the family."

Her eyebrows knit together, and then her brow smooths out as unpleasant surprise transforms her features. "You're mafia."

I don't bother to validate that with an answer.

Her face twist with scorn. "He had a family, a wife and children." She pins her arms at her sides. "Did you think about that when you slit his throat?"

My chuckle is dry. "He obviously didn't when he dipped his hand in the cookie jar."

"Was that a reason to kill him?" she asks with wide, beautiful, disbelieving eyes.

"We had to make an example of him. What would happen if we let everyone think they can get away with taking what belongs to us?" I remove my jacket and fold it over the back of a chair. "Did anyone see you leave?"

"Why?"

"Answer me. This is important."

She follows my actions with her gaze. "The night guard." When I unstrap the knife belt, she speaks faster. "He always locks the street door behind me."

I put the knife belt on the chair and unbutton my shirt. "Do you remember the time?"

Her gaze darts to the work of my fingers. "Twenty minutes after midnight. What are you doing?" Her voice climbs an octave as I pull my arms from the sleeves and drop the shirt on the floor. "Why are you undressing?"

"Did you run into anyone outside?"

"No."

I'm not worried about the street surveillance cameras. We picked a spot with a dead angle to finish Lewis. As for the ones in the street, Giorgio would already have taken care of those, getting our contact to wipe them clean. It's a common enough practice in our circles. It's surprising how much dirty money a computer geek in the bureau can make.

Only one question remains. "Did you call someone on the phone?"

"No," she says again.

That's fortunate. If her call was cut off when she dropped her phone, it would've been exactly at the hour Lewis died. That would've been suspicious. It would've required more cleaning, such as making the person she spoke to as well as the records of the cell phone company disappear.

She could be lying, but I believe her. I would've heard her voice if she were talking. Anyway, I'll check her phone to be sure.

"What are you doing?" she repeats when I reach for my belt and undo the buckle.

"Take off your clothes."

Her lips part but no sound comes out.

"Come on, Anya. I can promise you it won't be pleasant if I have to cut that dress off of you."

"Are you…?" she starts, but she loses her nerve before she can finish her question.

I kick off my shoes and take off my socks, letting them fall where they drop. "I don't force women. I don't have to." When she continues to stand there like a statue, I add, "I won't take anything you don't want to give."

"Except my life?" she asks with a bite in her tone.

I don't tell her I already took her life. Maybe I didn't take it in the way she means, but there's no arguing that her days of freedom are over. Life as she knew it ceased to exist when circumstances dealt her an unlucky blow. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time decided her future. There's nothing either of us can do about it.

Peeling out of my pants, I give her the reassurance she needs. "I'm not going to kill you."

When I stand in front of her in nothing but my briefs, she cuts a path over me with her gaze. I'm used to women looking, and I'm not shy. I discard the pants on the chair, making sure they cover the knife.

She jerks her face back to mine and asks with loathing, "Only Livy?"

I cross the floor and stop short of her. "If I have to."

Incandescent ire blazes in her eyes. "You're a monster."

My nod is solemn. "I know what I am."

Seeing that the insult doesn't faze me, she clamps her mouth shut but continues to glare at me.

"Fine," I say. "We'll do this my way."

When I reach for her arms, she steps away from me.

The sound of a doorbell comes from downstairs.

"Take off your dress, Anya. I won't tell you again."

She looks at me as if I'm the muck on the bottom of a slimy river as she turns her back on me before removing the cardigan with trembling fingers.

"Give it here," I say, reaching for the garment.

In a pitiful act of defiance, she drops it on the floor. My patience is endless. I didn't get as far as I did in the business for being short-tempered or impulsive. That's Giorgio.

Smiling to myself, I let the cardigan lie there. I was going to fold it for her, but this looks more authentic.

She toes off her shoes and hovers barefoot in the corner.

"Need help with the zipper?" I ask.

I meant it in the best way possible, seeing how much her hands are shaking, but the scowl she directs at me from over her shoulder is cutting.

My attention snaps to her movements as she reaches behind her and pulls down the zipper. The edges of the dress fall open, revealing the milky skin of her narrow back that appears all the more pale against the black lace of her bra. Right in the middle, crossing over her spine above the band of her bra, red scrapes mar her flesh.

The action of reaching out is instinctive. Before I can stop myself, I brush my fingertips over the broken skin. She jumps as if I branded her with a red-hot iron.

"Relax," I coax. "I said I wasn't going to hurt you."

Goosebumps run over her arms as I trace the lines drawn in blood. The sharp edges of the bricks must've cut her when I pushed her against wall.

"I didn't mean to be so rough." It wasn't my intention to slam her so hard against that wall. I would've softened the blow with a palm behind her back if my hands weren't full. "We better disinfect these."

She hollows her spine and steps away, escaping my touch.

"Carry on," I say in a gruff voice that leaves no room for argument.

I study her with undivided attention as she pushes the dress down her arms and over her hips. A lacy black thong matches the bra. The fabric of her dress pools around her ankles, revealing a perfectly proportioned body from the dip of her narrow waist and the flare of her hips to the firm globes of her ass and the toned calves of her legs.

It's impossible to hide my reaction when she turns around. If her back is perfection, her front is paradise. Her tits are round and pert, spilling over the cups of her bra. Peachy nipples are contracted into hard little points, teasing me from beneath a veil of black voile. Her hips are just wide enough for my hands to find purchase while her stomach is slightly rounded exactly like I prefer. Flat stomachs turn me off. If I'm going to bury my fingers in a woman's flesh, I prefer her soft and ripe like a succulent fruit, not hard and rigid like an ironing board. The cherry on the top is that she doesn't shave. The trimmed curls that show through the lace triangle between her legs are natural and womanly. That's how I like it. I don't want to feel as if I'm fucking a plucked turkey, or worse, a child.

The bulge in my briefs is proof of the effect she has on me. That, in itself, is a mystery, because these days, I only get hard for tall, topless blondes in strip clubs. As in the street, my untimely arousal catches me by surprise. Let's face it, those platinum-haired beauties put in a lot of work before they get me hard enough to fuck them. This short little redhead does what they'd only achieve with a lap dance and a lot of cock sucking with nothing but the drop of her dress.

She's staring pointedly at my groin, no doubt coming to her own conclusion. I can write it off to being a man—any man who doesn't get hard for her must either be blind or dead—but I don't want to play these games with her. If she holds power over me, she deserves to know it. I'm not going to demean her effect on me by telling her it's straightforward biology, a man's natural reaction to any female body in a state of undress.

"Go," I say, my voice rough. "Get into bed."

She wets her lips in a nervous reaction. "Why?"

"Didn't I make myself clear? I'm not going to force myself on you."

"Then why?—"

The ringing of the doorbell cuts her short.

"Into bed," I say, my command soft but harsh. "Now."

She glances between me and the door. I can almost see the gears turn in her head as she contemplates a cry for help and an escape.

There's no way out of this for her.

My smile stretches slowly. "If you step out of line, this night is going to end very unpleasantly for both you and the person behind that door."

The threat works. She spins around and rushes to the bedroom that's visible in the light of a nightstand lamp. A connecting door at the far end must lead to a bathroom.

The bell rings again. A few hard knocks follow.

"I'm coming," I call as I make my way to the entrance, dragging my fingers through my hair to ruffle it up.

I swing the door open wide, expecting the police officer that stands on the other side. After discovering the body, they'll question everyone who lives in the area. It's protocol.

"Excuse the interruption," he says, cutting a path over me with his eyes as he shoves a badge in my face. "Can you tell me where you've been between midnight and now?"

I give him my best baffled look. "With my girlfriend."

He glances over my shoulder, taking stock of the apartment. "Here?" His gaze homes in on the clothes strewn over the floor.

"She worked late. I met her not far from here and walked her home."

He scribbles down something in a notebook. "Can anyone vouch for that?"

"Ms. Simmons. She lives on the first floor. She walked with us after having a drink at the bar downstairs."

He lifts his head and scrutinizes me. "What about before then?"

"I had dinner at a restaurant in Little Italy." I give him the name, knowing Rusty will attest to the fact. He's under our protection. We often dine in the private room at the back.

"What about your girlfriend?" the cop asks. "Can I speak to her?"

"Of course." My tone drips with nuance. "We were already in bed, but I'll get her for you."

The cop grins as he shoots another look at clothes that form a trail through the lounge to the door on the opposite side. "Lucky you."

Projecting my voice to the back, I call, "Anya."

A moment later, she steps out of the bedroom, tying the belt of a silk robe around her waist. "What's going on?"

Her voice falters on the last word, but it can be accounted to sleepiness.

"Come here, tesoro ," I say. "The officer would like to ask you a few questions."

She walks compliantly to my side, allowing me to pull her under my arm.

After he asks her the same questions, he writes down our names and telephone numbers.

"If I may ask," I start, waiting until the officer looks up. "What's going on?"

"Homicide," he says, directing his attention back to his notebook.

Anya utters something that sounds like a strangled gasp.

"That's shocking." I rub Anya's arm, the caress both soothing and reprimanding. "Is it someone from the neighborhood?"

"We haven't identified the body yet," the officer says in a neutral tone.

"I hope you get the culprit." I smile. "We like our neighborhood safe."

He hands me a business card with an instruction to call him if we remember anything that may be important, and then he leaves.

The minute I've locked the door, Anya pushes away from me.

"That's what you wanted?" She spits the words at me. "An alibi?"

"Naturally."

She backtracks to the bar. "You son of a bitch. You made me an accomplice."

I raise a brow. "Did you prefer I killed you?"

"Very clever." She sounds on the verge of hysteria. "Now I can't talk because I'm guilty too."

Closing the distance, I say in a dangerously calm voice, "Telling me you were planning on talking is not very intelligent, tesoro . I didn't take you for an unwise woman."

She utters a laugh. "Do you prefer that I lie? Oh, wait. Yes. But only about having been with you."

Now that the immediate danger is over, she's losing her shit. She knows I'm not bluffing about not killing her. If I wanted her dead, she would've been so already. She's bright enough to understand that. She knows as well as I do ten people saw us in that street. Yeah, I counted even as I kissed her six ways from Sunday while shoving my tongue down her throat to strangle her scream. That's not taking Livy into account. If I kill Anya, I'd have to eliminate eleven people.

I don't know Anya, but I sense the breakdown that's coming. It's the shock.

I keep her in my line of vision, ready to bolt and catch her if I have to as I go around the bar. "You need a drink."

She doesn't keep much on the open shelf under the counter. The bottle of cooking wine will have to do. I pour two glasses and carry them to her.

Offering her one, I instruct, "Drink."

She doesn't reach for the glass. From the meagre contents of her bar, I get the impression she's not a big drinker, but this is non-negotiable.

"Drink." I hold out the glass. "It'll make you sleep better. I promise."

She turns her face away. "I can't."

"Come on." I tease her with a whiff, lifting the glass to her nose. "It wasn't a request."

She looks at me again, licking her lips as if her mouth is too dry to swallow when relief is within her grasp.

"I can't," she says again.

Fine. I'll play her game. I lower the glass. "Why not?"

She hesitates, looking almost frightened before saying, "I'm pregnant."