For the Love of Sin. Leanne Banks
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own mouth.”
Juan motioned his friends backward. “A man deserves to claim his woman.”
Senada slammed the pitcher of beer down on the counter. “His woman, my fanny.”
“Appreciate your understanding,” Troy interjected with a nod.
She glared at him with enough heat to melt iron, then seared him with a rush of Spanish words for which he could only guess the meaning.
She narrowed her eyes. “You know, up until this moment, you just annoyed me,” she told him as she rounded the counter. “I had decided you were pushy because you were misguided. And if you were a little thick upstairs, it was probably just genetic, since the rest of your brothers seemed to be the same way. When people annoy me, I ignore them.”
She leaned closer to him, and Troy was amazed at the quick leap of response in his body. “Now, I really don’t like you,” she whispered in a voice that shouldn’t have been but was outrageously seductive. Her eyes were nearly black with emotion, and Troy felt himself sinking.
He closed his own eyes, blinking at the odd sensations inside him. Before he knew it, cold beer gushed down his head. Senada put the empty pitcher on the counter. He swore. His hair was drenched, his shirt wet. “What in hell—” He swore again, jerking away and shaking his head.
Senada smiled. “That’s what I do to people I don’t like. Don’t mess with me, Pendleton. You are out of your league.”
After his shower, Troy received a call from his brother Brick. “Nothing yet,” he said, toweling dry his hair. “I knew she was moody, but you could have warned me about her temper.”
“Lisa says she doesn’t like being told what to do. And she gets really upset if she thinks someone is trying to put one over on her,” Brick said.
Troy glanced at his beer-drenched shirt wadded up in the corner of his room and nodded.
“Yeah, I figured that out.”
“Well, if you screwed up, Lisa says Senada loves chocolate.” Brick lowered his voice.
“Personally, I’d recommend ducking. What do you think is wrong with her, anyway?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll find out. Even if it kills me,” he muttered, then asked about the farm. After a couple of minutes, he finished his conversation and gazed around his new living quarters. A vast improvement over the hotel, the two-room garage apartment was still too small and hot, but it was clean. After sizing Troy up, his elderly landlord had given him a list of rules a mile long and required two months’ rent in advance. But as they say in real estate, location is everything. His present location was perfect for his purpose.
Before, his determination to solve the mystery of Sin had been a matter of his promise to his brother and sister-in-law. Now, male pride and a near self-destructive determination drove him. He pushed the curtains aside and looked out his window. Two doors down and across the street stood Senada’s house. He could just imagine her delight when she learned who her new neighbor was.
The finger prick still hurt, Senada thought as she tested her blood. She just wasn’t very good at sticking herself. She jotted down the date, time and results in the little notebook, then eyed the syringe warily.
“The needle is my friend,” she told herself.
“Liar,” she whispered back, and started to perspire. Her anxiety was strictly related to that damn needle, not her lack of insulin. She took a breath and grabbed a premoistened alcohol pad.
“Right thigh, today,” she said, wishing her voice had a more soothing effect on her nerves. She brushed the pad over her thigh, then poised the syringe over the same area.
“The needle is my friend.” Her overriding instinct was to close her eyes, but she’d learned it hurt worse when she missed her targeted area. “This is not my leg.” Denial worked for the millisecond she needed, and Senada plunged the syringe into her thigh.
She swore at the sharp sting. “That was most definitely my leg.” Her hands trembling, she tossed the used syringe away and stood. It should be easier now, she thought, glancing at her watch. But it wasn’t. She kept waiting for the day when she didn’t mind living by the clock, making sure she ate every four hours, testing her blood and giving her own injections of insulin. But Senada had always lived by her own clock and her own rules, so she was furious that her body had betrayed her.
There should be a rule somewhere that people who were afraid of needles didn’t develop insulin-dependent diabetes. There should be another rule that chocoholics didn’t develop diabetes. There should be, but there wasn’t.
As much as she would like to ignore the intrusion of her recent diagnosis, Senada couldn’t. She knew her mother had died of complications from diabetes. Either from ignorance or neglect, her mother hadn’t been conscientious about her health. Senada had inherited her mother’s height, her expressive brown eyes and thick, black hair. Unfortunately, she’d also inherited the diabetes.
The doctors assured her, however, that she could live a long, healthy life if she took care of herself. She’d been careless about that area in the past. Her idea of taking care of herself had been luxuriating in a bubble bath and sleeping until noon on her day off every now and then.
A healthy diet was a necessity now. A regular schedule was a given. She stretched her shoulders against the sudden sensation of being tied down. The needles and the lack of chocolate were tough to endure, but the most difficult for her so far was the loss of freedom.
She sighed and made a face at the mirror. After extensive negotiations with her dietician, they had found a way for her to have a chocolate dessert once a week. And tonight was the night for her devil’s food cupcake filled with chocolate cream.
Senada brushed her hair from her face and smiled wryly. Meat, vegetables and a small portion of grains first, but then the cupcake. “Better than sex,” she murmured in sweet anticipation.
Forty-five minutes later, she’d lit a candle, put soft music on to play in the background and had eaten her vegetables. She removed her empty plate from the table.
The moment had arrived. Her heart beat faster. Her mouth began to water. Taking a deep breath, she stripped off the cellophane wrapper. It had been over a month.
The doorbell rang.
Senada sighed, giving a backward glance toward the door. She contemplated quickly biting the top off of the cupcake, but was determined not to rush this rare, small pleasure. She left the table and pulled open the door to Troy Pendleton.
She tried to close it, but his big foot prevented her.
“C’mon, Sin, give me a break. I’m here to apologize.”
That gave her pause.
“Sort of,” he added.
She gave the door another push.
“I brought chocolates.”
She opened the door and stared. “Chocolates?”
He gave a slow grin as if he’d just shot two through a basketball hoop. It was a grin designed to get past a woman’s defenses. Other women, she thought, would find that grin appealing. “You mentioned an apology?” she prompted, noting the box of candy.
“Are you going to invite me in?” He looked past her.
No. “I’m a little busy right now. I—” She broke off when she spotted her neighbor, Mrs. Rodriguez, running toward them at a breakneck pace. Senada had met a few of her neighbors, but Mrs. Rodriguez had been the most welcoming. The effusive, nurturing woman had even brought her homemade bread.
“My husband! My husband! He is dead!” Then she tore into a flurry of Spanish.
Senada shared a look of alarm with Troy, and all three rushed to the Rodriguez’s house. At first glance, Mr. Rodriguez did look dead, sitting limply