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shudder.
    “How do you know that?”
    “They told me—you know, the people who got robbed. Whoever did it is a pervert, and it seems like he must have had keys, too. I mean, it’s not like the doors were broken down.”
    “Yeah, but the windows were open. Someone could have easily crawled in from the fire escapes. Look, I really doubt it was Jerry. He’s really just a kid—”
    “He’s twenty-four.”
    “That’s how old I am, exactly. He seems younger. How do you know his age?”
    “He told me once. Like I care.”
    “Well, in any case . . .” Allison shrugged. “I can’t imagine him hurting a fly. He seems harmless.”
    “Okay, maybe he’s not a thief. But harmless? The way he was looking at us . . .” Kristina shuddered again.
    “Not us— you .”
    True. For some reason, Jerry didn’t appear to be the least bit interested in Allison, who happens to be a drop-dead-gorgeous blue-eyed blonde.
    No, he seemed fixated on Kristina—continually sneaking glances at her as he crouched in front of the washing machine, then falling all over himself to retrieve a rolling quarter she dropped.
    Yes, he always acts utterly smitten when she sees him around the building—which is much more often than she’d like. It’s almost as if he’s lying in wait for her . . .
    The way you lie in wait for Mack?
    She weighs the risk of running into Jerry if she goes downstairs right now against the risk of not seeing Mack for another twenty-four hours.
    Easy decision.
    Kristina hurries over to the full-length mirror.
    Checking her reflection, she tosses aside the tweed suit jacket she wore to her temp job and unbuttons the second button of the white blouse beneath. After a moment’s hesitation, she also daringly unbuttons the third, for optimum cleavage.
    Hmm—still a little frumpy. She makes a mental note to take her knee-length skirt to a tailor to be shortened after this wearing. The suit is a couple of seasons old, but it’s still decent, and Allison mentioned yesterday that miniskirts are back in style. Kristina has great legs, a dancer’s legs. Why not show them off?
    She does a quick makeup touch-up and dabs perfume behind each ear. Then she spreads her fingers and rakes them from her scalp to the ends of her curly, shoulder-length dark hair, tousling it just enough to look bedroom sexy, but not bed-head messy.
    There. Good to go.
    She slips her feet into a pair of pumps and hurries for the door, glancing at her watch. Perfect timing.
    She hurriedly descends four flights of steps to the first floor, opens the door from the stairwell . . .
    And literally crashes into the bulky, imposing figure of Jerry.
    Kristina wobbles on her feet. Jerry puts his hands on her upper arms to steady her. Her nostrils twitch at the ripe scent of his sweat.
    “Sorry!” he says.
    “It’s okay.”
    She’s no longer wobbling, but he doesn’t move his hands. She looks pointedly down at them. His fingernails are dirty. His grip is unpleasantly strong.
    She flinches.
    He gets the hint.
    Removing his hands, he shoves them into the pockets of his jeans. A lot of young guys are wearing their pants baggy, ragged, and low lately—a trendy nod to gangsta rap—but Kristina knows Jerry isn’t making a fashion statement.
    No, with him, it’s classic, clueless-handyman butt crack.
    Between that and his breath—which is bad, no surprise there—it’s all she can do to hold back a shudder. Especially when she sees him take in her deliberately displayed décolletage.
    That’s not for you! That’s for Mack!
    Beneath his blond crew cut, Jerry’s plump face is flushed. “Kristina . . .”
    He knows her first name?
    Maybe that shouldn’t be surprising, but somehow, it is. Or at least, the sound of it on his lips. Surprising, and repulsive.
    “Are you busy?”
    “ Busy? ”
    “Yeah. I thought . . .” His hands push deeper into his pockets, his shoulders hunching toward his jowls. He licks his lips and a strand of saliva