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instincts said he was a good guy. But that wasn’t enough. “For me, sex has to mean something. I have to feel good about myself in the morning.”
    â€œYeah,” he said ruefully. “I kinda figured. But I wasn’t sure.”
    She gave a shaky smile. “Never hurts to ask.” And she’d bet that, when he did, he rarely got turned down.
    â€œSo. It’s after midnight. I should probably go.”
    â€œNo.” The word jumped out of her mouth. She didn’t want him to slip out of her life so soon. “I’m not tired, and I am having that cake and coffee. It’d be nice to have company.” Maybe it was a test. If all he wanted from her was sex, he’d go.
    â€œSounds good.”
    Pleased, she moved aside, her heart still racing too fast for comfort. “Why don’t you cut the cake? Plates are in the cupboard above. I’ll pour coffee.”
    A few minutes later they sat down across from each other at the kitchen table. She tasted Brooke’s cake. Mmm, it was maybe even better the second time around. She took another bite. “I have to ask for her recipe.”
    Jamal was watching her, not eating his own cake.
    â€œAre you okay?” she asked.
    â€œIf you’re not into having sex, you shouldn’t eat cake in front of me.”
    Hmm. Apparently she had feminine wiles she wasn’t aware of. She stifled a smug grin.
    He picked up his fork and began to eat.
    Trying to quell the ache and pulse of unfulfilled arousal, she returned to her former agenda: finding out more about him. “You said you grew up in Chicago? What did your parents do?”
    He froze in the act of raising his coffee mug toward his mouth.
    Had she said something wrong? It seemed such an innocent question.
    Jamal put down the mug with slow deliberation and squared his shoulders. Stone-faced, he said flatly, “Drugs.”
    Her lips parted but she didn’t how to respond. Still, he had answered her question, albeit succinctly. Cautiously, she said, “Your parents did drugs? That must have been, uh, tough.”
    He blinked. “Yeah.” After a moment, more words came slowly out. “Inner city. Puerto Rican dad who was in a gang.” His normally rich voice was cold, without inflection. “Sold drugs, did drugs, got killed in a gang war. Black mom who died of an overdose.” His face was as expressionless as his voice.
    â€œOh my God, Jamal.” She thought of her own wonderful childhood, and how her parents’ social conscience had shaped her life and her brother’s. “How old were you?”
    â€œSix when he died. Seven when she did.”
    â€œSo young.” She reached over to rest her hand on his bare forearm, warm skin over tense muscles. “Any siblings?”
    His Adam’s apple rippled as he swallowed. “Baby sister. Four years younger. By then Mom was seriously into drugs and Alicia was born addicted. She had lots of problems and my parents didn’t take her for treatment. She died before she was a year old.”
    â€œOh, God.” She took a deep breath, knowing he wasn’t the kind of man who’d welcome gushy sympathy. “What happened when your parents died? Did you go into the system?”
    Gazing down at his plate, he shook his head. “My dad’s sister and her husband took me in. They lived in Toronto.”
    â€œHow did it work out?”
    When he didn’t answer after a few seconds, Karen said, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I just . . . I want to get to know you.”
    He lifted his head and stared at her, his near-black eyes piercing. “Why’s that?”
    What an odd question. Why wouldn’t someone want to get to know him? “Because I like you. Respect you.” She pressed her lips together, reflecting on this fascinating man. “Undercover work is a tough job and takes a special kind of person. You have to be able to be a loner,