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dipping the mattress so she had to brace to keep from rolling against him.
    Silently, he held out a mug to her. Steam curled up from the surface, bringing with it the delectable scent of coffee.
    Willow narrowed her eyes, staring at it for several seconds before deciding she was really going to need the jolt.
    Because the second thing she realized was that she knew exactly who had slept in her bed last night. She didn’t like him. And he’d lied to her.
    She fortified herself with several sips before stretching to the opposite side of the bed and setting the mug down. Better not to have this conversation with hot liquid in her hands. He might just end up burned.
    He watched her, warily. Obviously he was fully prepared for the conversation they were about to have. Just one more reason to be pissed. Had he known who she was from the first moment?
    Shifting away from him, Willow glared. “Your name isn’t Dev.”
    His mouth tightened, but that was his only reaction to the accusation in her voice. “Yes, it is.”
    “No, it isn’t.”
    “Interesting. That’s what my birth certificate says.”
    “That’s not funny, Wick.”
    “Do you see me laughing, Willow? And don’t call me that.”
    No, he wasn’t laughing. At least not on the outside. She couldn’t help but think he was probably hooting and hollering on the inside about the coup he’d just pulled.
    As if ruining her sister’s marriage and betraying her hadn’t been enough for him, he’d decided to weasel his way into getting what he’d always wanted—her, naked.
    Although, she had to admit, she’d been pretty eager to shed her clothes last night and hadn’t put up much of a fuss.
    Guilt and regret mixed with her anger, blunting it in a way that was far from satisfying. Trust her conscience to surface just when she needed righteous indignation.
    She’d had a one-night stand with a stranger. A masked stranger. She hadn’t exactly expected to wake up with a paragon of virtue. But she hadn’t expected to wake up with Wick, either. The only man who’d ever tempted her to sin.
    A groan rolled up through her chest, but she cut it off before it broke free. That alone should have told her who touched her. No one had ever made her feel so electrified and alive with nothing more than a look.
    He’d always had that effect on her. But she hadn’t seen him in ten years and had no reason to expect him in Sweetheart—let alone beneath the devil’s mask.
    “Why not? What’s wrong with Wick?”
    “It isn’t my name. Never has been. The only people who’ve ever called me that are the people in this town. And, as you can imagine, I don’t like the reminder very much.”
    They’d called him Wicked Wick. She remembered hearing her sister purr his name, the single word filled with the kind of raw sensuality that, at seventeen, she hadn’t completely understood.
    Oh, she did now. An unwanted shiver of memory erupted in goose bumps across her skin.
    To hide her reaction, Willow climbed from the bed, making sure the sheet stayed tightly wrapped around her body. With the bed between them she felt a little steadier. Until those midnight eyes full of banked heat and promise raked across her.
    “Why are you here?”
    Standing, Dev rounded the bed, never breaking his hold on her gaze. She grudgingly gave him credit. After that one brief singeing glance, he kept his focus squarely on her face.
    He closed the space between them. Willow shifted, trying to get far enough away that she could think clearly. And deal with the situation. But there was nowhere for her to go.
    Her back hit the edge of the dresser. Behind her, several bottles and trinkets trembled at the contact. Straightening her spine, Willow pulled the shreds of her composure around her like a shield. She refused to let him see that he got to her.
    But he didn’t stop. His body crowded into her space. Her back bowed under the pressure of his presence. The heat of him overwhelmed her. He didn’t touch her,