Doctor's Orders. Jessica Andersen

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      With that vow firmly in mind as the taxi driver pulled up to the curb in front of his Beacon Hill town house, he got out and paid the driver.

      “Come on.” He scanned their night-quiet surroundings as he gestured for Mandy to precede him up the brick walkway, but there was nothing suspicious about the well-lit area or the passing cars. Still, he didn’t relax until he got the front door unlocked and checked the security system, which was green across the board.

      He reset the system and locked the door, expecting to feel a sense of relief that they were home safe. Instead his disquiet only increased as he turned toward Mandy, who stood just inside the door, swaying on her feet as though she was about ready to drop from exhaustion and the stress of the day.

      She caught his eye and deliberately looked away, scanning his town house.

      He’d had the whole place done over when he bought it a few months after his divorce was finalized, and the result was three levels of late eighteenth century period-correct hardwood floors, exposed beams and horsehair plaster, offset with modern touches of marble, chrome and glass. The decorator he’d hired had gone with greens and blues, and from the entryway the splashes of color were visible both on the second floor, which was level with the front door, and the upper level, which had been partly cut away to form a balcony of sorts surrounding the cathedral ceiling of the sitting room on the second floor.

      He’d left the bottom floor untouched and used it as his gym, but the main floors practically screamed “understated opulence,” which was what he’d been going for.

      Now, though, he wondered what Mandy saw when she looked around. And, realizing that her response mattered far more than it should, he realized something else.

      She was the first woman, other than the decorator and the cleaning lady, that he’d invited into his home.

      “Nice.” Mandy hummed a note under her breath. “Very nice.” But there was something guarded in her voice when she said, “Did you bring the files on the other victims?”

      He nodded. “Yeah. You can have a look at them, let me know if you see anything we missed.”

      But he didn’t hand them over, didn’t move except to draw in a deep breath, one that brought her scent to him, a mix of shampoo and woman he’d told himself he’d forgotten long ago. Now, though, it was inescapable, and it triggered memories he could’ve sworn were gone forever, memories of heat and chaos, and a blond-haired girl who’d—both then and now—stirred him up more than had been comfortable, or wise.

      “I don’t think this is going to work,” he said. “You and me working together on this…it’s just not a good idea.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

      “Because of this.” Before she knew what he intended, hell before he was conscious of making the move, Parker crossed the distance separating them.

      And kissed her.