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entrée into the firm and had been feathering his nest—his crime family’s nest—by selling WiFi networks to corporate clients at triple the cost, and then funneling the illegal profits back to the mob. The depth of the deception still blew Josh away. Not sure where to turn, he’d contacted the FBI’s Boston field office. The feds had lost no time in faking Josh’s death, assigning him a new identity as Josh Thorner, and relocating him to Baltimore. Three days later, Grady had turned up as a floater on the Charles River.
    As far as the public was concerned, Joshua Sedgewick Thornton the Third had drowned in a tragic sailing accident that summer. At first Josh had objected to the ruse until his FBI contact, Special Agent Walker had pointed out that playing dead was his best guarantee of staying alive.
    Looking back over the past six months, he admitted that in all likelihood Walker had been right. And though Baltimore wouldn’t have been his top pick for a relocation locale, once you went underground, geography pretty much lost its meaning.
    As for bartending, he’d been skeptical at first of the Bureau’s choice of temporary occupation, but the service industry had proved to be the perfect cover. Bar patrons might share every detail of their lives, no matter how embarrassing or minute, but they rarely thought to ask questions about yours. Beyond that, he couldn’t help appreciating the honest, hands-on nature of the work. In a bar, a satisfied customer was just that—no if, ands or buts. If someone didn’t like the product, they told you so to your face, and you had the chance to make things right then and there—no corporate backstabbing or political infighting to navigate. At the end of the day, or rather, night, you left work behind and went home with a head uncluttered by spreadsheets or quarterly productivity reports. If it weren’t for the estrangement from his family and friends, and the guilt he felt about letting them believe he was dead, he would be savoring his sabbatical from the dog-eat-dog world of corporate America.
    Other than his FBI contacts, the only person who knew he was alive was his former fiancée, Tiffany, and given the unsavory circumstances surrounding the disclosure, his secret should certainly be safe with her. On his way to rendezvous with the two agents assigned to protect him, he hadn’t been able to resist stopping off at the Beacon Hill town house they shared to let her know he was okay. He’d entered through a rear door, the sounds of a woman’s whimpering drifting down the back stairs. Thinking she must have heard the bogus bad news already, he took the stairs two at a time and rushed into the bedroom—and found her sprawled atop the sheets, the curly brown head of the lawn care kid wedged between her splayed thighs.
    Sickened, he’d backed out of the room before the kid had registered his presence. An hour later, he was hunkered down in the back seat of a car with two FBI agents driving south toward Maryland. Even after six months, the gut-dropping feeling of walking into that room never entirely left him, replaying in his head like a bad TV rerun and putting him squarely off women—until tonight.
    Mandy Delinski was someone very special. He’d felt that from the moment he’d locked eyes with her across the crowded museum event, and their coffee date had only enhanced the attraction. Gorgeous, curvy ladies with passions for old movies, Art Deco and Death by Chocolate ice cream didn’t just walk into a guy’s life every day of the week. Beyond her obvious physical attributes and their shared interests, there was something about her that tugged at him, a crazy dead-on chemistry he’d never felt before in his thirty-two years of planetary living. Her full figure molded to his body like a custom-made glove and man-oh-man, could the woman kiss. He knew he must be wearing the lion’s share of the fiery red lipstick that had accentuated her luscious mouth and rather than