Free Mad About the Man by Tracy Anne Warren

Purell.”
    Trish laughed and was still laughing as the elevator doors slid shut.
    The outside air was bathtub-water warm and just as humid, thick clouds lumbering high above the skyscrapers in patches of dull gray and muddy white. Crap, was it going to rain? This morning’s weather forecast had given it only a twenty percent chance. Fingers crossed that it would hold off until she got to the bridal salon.
    She hurried into the rushing just-want-to-get-the-hell-home crowd, keeping pace with a quick, confident stride. The subway station was four blocks down, an easy walk, especially on sensible yet attractive two-inch brown leather pumps. Everything was going according to schedule.
    Then she got to the station entrance. A Closed sign blocked the stairwell.
    â€œWhat the hell?” she said aloud to no one in particular.
    Other disgruntled people came to a stop behind her, reading the same sign. “Water main break,” a man said. “Happened around two, I heard. Station’s gonna be closed for who knows how long.”
    Collective groans rose into the air.
    With the resigned resilience of New Yorkers, they turned and started walking again, presumably headed toward the nearest open station listed on a sign set up next to the one that read CLOSED .
    It was eight blocks away.
    With sick frustration, Brie knew she was going to be late.
    Again.
    She supposed she should call her mother to let her know, but even as she started to reach for her cell phone, she hesitated. She just didn’t want to hear the lecture—or the disappointment. Maybe if she could find a cab, she’d still make it in time. Chances weren’t good, but it was worth a try. She would head for the subway station and, when the traffic lights were against her, try flagging down a ride.
    She started walking, pausing to stick out her arm every so often and wave. But the cabs all whizzed by, already occupied or off duty. She went two blocks, then three, with no luck whatsoever. She was most of the way along the fourth when a few fat raindrops splattered around her like gunshots, dampening her charcoal skirted suit and the bodice of her cream silk blouse. A cold breeze gusted along after it, sending shivers over her skin.
    Well, if this isn’t the straw and the f-ing camel’s back, I don’t know what is.
Not only would she never get a cab now, since finding one in the rain was harder than winning the Powerball jackpot, but if the black clouds roiling overhead really opened up, she was going to be wetter than a drowned rat.
    But worst, worst, worst of all, she was going to miss the fitting appointment
for the third time
.
    She was walking at her briskest pace when a black Mercedes S-class sedan pulled over to the curb just ahead of her. It stopped and the rear door opened, but no one got out. Instead, as she drew even with the car, she saw Maddox Monroe leaning forward from the sleek, richly appointed leather backseat. “Hey, Grayson, need a lift?”
    She stared, surprised to find him of all people riding—or should she say driving—to her rescue. But as she knew all too well, he was no white knight. His heart was black—moonless-night, stygian-mine-shaft, deep-space-where-no-one-can-hear-you-scream black.
    Her brows furrowed and she shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”
    Fine?
Who was she kidding? But she was off the clock now, so accepting favors from him came under the same heading as taking candy from strangers. The wind blew again and she shivered.
    â€œThis rain isn’t going to hold off much longer,” he told her. “Come on, get in.”
    As if the weather were in on their conversation, a few more doughnut-hole-sized raindrops splashed against the pavement, a low rumble of thunder reverberating afterward. The clouds were black now rather than gray, signaling that all hell was about to break loose.
    As much as she wanted to refuse Monroe’s offer, she knew when to put