I rip the headset off and scramble to disconnect the call. Sweat slicks my palms and my heart thunders against my ribs. I roll my chair back until there’s enough room to brace my forearms on my thighs and drop my head down below my knees.

Just breathe, I tell myself as panic claws at the inside of my chest. Just one breath after another. Slowly. In and out. Focus on that; don’t think about the call.

Despite my best efforts, I can’t prevent my mind from taking a turn to the past.

That voice. I’d know it anywhere.

A little more than seven years ago, I’d first heard it waiting for a drink in a small beachside bar. Then, it had sent shivers racing up and down my spine–and weakened my knees.

I lift my head and look at my computer monitor. The number I dialed shows in bold text and it’s paired with the name Duncan Kilpatrick. But Duncan Kilpatrick wasn’t the person who answered. That voice had belonged to Jason Monroe. It had changed the trajectory of my life forever.

I never thought I’d hear it again. Haven’t wanted to hear it again.

Either Jason and Duncan are friends and Jason answered Duncan’s phone, or the computer system screwed up and matched the wrong name to the wrong number. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. Probably not the last.

Of course, the other times I’ve experienced that particular computer glitch, the episodes had been mildly amusing. And since I was the one Jerry turned to to correct the problem, since I worked faster and did a better job than the IT department, they’d been lucrative. As lucrative as anything gets in my life, anyway.

Not this time.

“Are you all right, dearie?” The sound of Flo Atkins’ voice makes me jump. I’d forgotten she was here, quietly cleaning up while I worked my way through the list.

I nod and offer her a weak smile. “Yeah.”

Flo’s watery blue eyes narrow and her forehead crinkles. “Are you sure? You’re awfully pale. And I saw how you reacted when you made that call. If I didn’t know better, it was like someone getting the worst news of her life.”

“Just tired, I guess.” Feeling slightly steadier, I reach out and shut down the computer. “Luckily I’m done now. Time to go home and get some sleep.”

Flo props her broom against the side of a desk and walks up to me, her thick-soled orthopedic shoes squeaking with each step. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Look at how your hands are shaking. Have you been tested for diabetes? Is it possible your blood sugar is low?”

It takes everything I’ve got to hold onto my patience and not snap at Flo. As a retired nurse who uses the cleaning job to supplement her pension, she’s always looking after everyone’s health.

And with me, she’s even worse. That’s what I get for forming a personal relationship with her. There’ve been times when Flo has kept me sane, but tonight –right now–coddling and sweetness is the last thing I need.

Standing, I remove my coat from the back of the chair and shrug into it. “I am a little hungry, but I’m not diabetic or anything like that, so there’s no danger of my passing out before I get home and make a sandwich. You don’t need to worry on that front.”

Flo isn’t convinced. “I don’t know. Things can change fast, and I’d feel just terrible if something happened to you before you get home… At least promise me you’ll call a cab, that you’re not going to walk like you usually do.”

I angle my body so Flo can’t see my right hand and cross my fingers. “I promise.”

Like I can afford the three-mile cab fare from here to my little apartment... At the rate things are going, I’ll be older than Flo before I get to do anything as luxurious as indulging in a cab, and that’s only if I’m very lucky.

Outside, the rain is sputtering down in one of those sullen drizzles that makes the city feel dark and dank and the furthest place from home. I lift my face, letting the icy cold drops wash the fatigue from my eyes and try to process what just happened.

Jason Monroe!

Until a little over a year ago, I hadn’t even known his last name. That night we’d never gotten to the point of exchanging last names. On the rare occasions when people asked about him, I’d simply said he was a nice guy, we’d enjoyed one night together and resumed our lives while ignoring the judgmental stares I’d received in response.

Technically, each time I told the story, it was the truth, but it didn’t come close to what happened. Even now, more than seven years later, the memory of what we’d done, how I’d felt, makes me blush. Saying he rocked my world is a gross understatement. It had been the kind of magical experience one assumes only happens in romance novels and movies, not real life.

And I walked away.

About a year ago, I was flipping through a magazine in the check-out line at the discount grocery store and pretty much got the shock of my life when a photo of his beautiful face popped out at me.

It was the last thing I’d expected to see. I’d been so stunned and eager for some news about him, I purchased the magazine, even though I could ill afford it and hurried home to read the accompanying article.

Apparently, in the years since our night of passion, he’s become some sort of computer genius. Not only has he started up his very own software firm, he’s created and held patents on about seven or eight of the hottest software programs on the market. Just before the magazine hit the presses, his personal net worth had passed the billion-dollar mile marker.

I splash through little puddles, soaking both my shoes and the hem of my jeans and consider how I’m not coming even close to making ends meet while he’s been steadily amassing a fortune. I don’t know if I should laugh or cry about the situation.

I wonder if he ever thinks about me?

It’d only be fair if he did. There hasn’t been a single day since we parted that his memory hasn’t drifted across my mind, and I haven’t wondered if I did the right thing when I walked away.

I make the turn onto my street and study the huge apartment building that houses my corner of the world. Normally I don’t give the faded bricks, battered fire escape, or complete lack of landscaping a second thought, but tonight, with the sound of Jason speaking my name echoing in my ears, I can’t help but notice how shabby the place is.

Particularly in comparison to the type of place he must surely have.

I’m so consumed by my thoughts, I almost reach my apartment door before I see and recognize the figure slumped against the paper-thin wall.

Oh shit!

Like tonight hasn’t already been long and hard enough, now–on top of everything else–I have to deal with Abe Bianchi, favored son of Chicago’s leading mafia boss and the biggest pain in my ass.