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CHAPTER 1

Betsy Kincaid held her nose and slurped down her third tequila shot in the last forty-two-and-a-half minutes. God, she hated the taste of booze. Even the drink she held in her hand, diluted until most people would think it was just funky water, still tasted like hundred-proof petroleum sludge to her. But if you were in the worst depression of your life, it was the only way to go. And that's just what she was in ... the worst depression of her twenty-six-year existence.

It was all because of her best friend. If not for him she wouldn't have met Tyler. And if she hadn't met Tyler, she wouldn't be going through this fit of terminal gloom. She wouldn't have had to struggle to find a way through it, either. Sadly, her choice had been a tossup between drowning her sorrow in watered-down tequila or smothering it in several thousand calories worth of the chocolate-truffle-mousse cheesecake she had in the fridge.

A coin toss had chosen the tequila, so there she sat choking on vile-tasting alcohol instead of obsessing about the five unwanted pounds of extra fat the cheesecake would inevitably deposit on her hips.

And it was all her best friend's fault. So she'd get him for it.

Betsy released her nose, thumped the empty glass onto the coffee table, and picked up her fourth drink.

They were lined up in front of her like bowling pins ready to be knocked off en masse. Or in her case, guzzled down sequentially until she was so smashed she forgot about Tyler. But not about her best friend. Him she was definitely going to curse out.

Of course, when you were on the verge of reading someone the riot act, the least you could do was warn him about it. After all, it was the polite thing to do. And she was nothing if not polite, even in the face of terminal despondency. So she pulled out her cell phone and tapped his speed-dial key.

There was a buzzing on the line, then a click sounded, signaling pickup at the other end, and she immediately let go, snarling out just what was on her mind. "Rob McConnell, I'm gonna get you."

"Then I'm glad I'm not Rob McConnell," someone answered.

Betsy cut a quick glance at the number in case she'd made a mistake and accidentally called her Uncle Robley or her GP, Doctor Robards. But she hadn't. It was definitely Rob's number, but the guy who'd answered was right. No way was he Rob McConnell. Different voice entirely.

"Unless by 'get,' you mean something other than hurt."

The Voice paused for a moment, then deepened suggestively. "Something nice and friendly. Then I think I'd like to be him."

"Hurt." Betsy mumbled the word and slid lower on the sofa, white-knuckling the cell as the heat of embarrassment prickled through her skin, making her want to crawl into the nearest hole.

The Voice made a tsk-tsking noise of tongue against teeth, sounding truly disappointed. "Oh, that's a pity. Guess my original comment stands, then. Rob's not here. Want me to give him the message?"

Betsy shook her head no-no-no, realized he couldn't see her — thank God — and blurted out a frantic denial instead. "No, sorry, wrong number."

"So you're not Betsy Kincaid?" His tone held an undercurrent of sheer gotcha — half amused, half victorious at having outed her.

Betsy cringed as waves of heat suffused her face. Humiliated again by a man, and this time one she didn't even know. "Huh?" It was the only thing she could think of to say, and it sounded just as lame as she felt.

"Betsy Kincaid. That's what caller ID says. Look, if you're afraid you got the wrong number, don't be. I'm staying with Rob, and we accidentally switched phones, so until he gets back, he's got my phone and I've got his, and his phone says you're Betsy Kincaid and your number is one-eight-one —"

"Yes!" Betsy fumbled with the phone, desperate to end the call before he pried any more information out of her. "All right, tell him I called. Goodbye."

"Hey, wait — don't go. I —"

It wasn't going to happen. No way would she wait for whatever else he wanted to say. She smacked the end button to disconnect the call. Then she groaned, held her nose, and chugged her fourth drink, more despondent than ever. She'd just made a fool of herself to a perfect stranger. Even worse, to a male stranger. It was the second time she'd messed up in front of a guy in the past four hours.

Damn The Voice, damn caller ID, and definitely damn Rob for stupidly switching his phone with some stranger's.

* * *

"Hey, wait — don't go. I just want to talk," Matt Pollard cried to the vaguely slurred, but really sexy, voice at the other end of the phone. He paused to wait for an answer.

Nothing. Only silence. Matt sighed.

All he wanted was for her to stay and chat a while. But would she listen? Of course not. She had simply severed the connection.

Well, giving up had never been his style, so he immediately tapped the number again and let it buzz until her voicemail kicked in. Then he clicked off the call and repeated the same silly process over and over again. He must have done it close to a dozen times. Okay, so he could be slightly obsessive and more than a little stubborn on occasion, but that's what had helped make him the pit-bull lawyer he was. He tried making another couple of calls before finally admitting that the lady with the sexily slurred voice was even more stubborn than he was and had no intention of answering.

Blowing out a frustrated groan, he shoved the phone back into his pocket, wishing he'd never bothered taking Rob's damn call. How the hell had he and Rob stupidly managed to switch phones in the first place? Even more important, why wasn't Rob here by now? He was supposed to be back at least an hour ago. If he'd arrived on time, he could have taken this Betsy Kincaid's call himself, and then Matt wouldn't be sitting there wondering what she looked like and how he could get close enough to check her out in the flesh.

He pulled the phone out again and tapped into Rob's contact list, scrolling down until he reached her name. Fine. If he couldn't convince her to answer a phone call, at least he could check up on her actual whereabouts.

"Betsy Kincaid. Home address: 1040 Weston Terrace. Work address: 12333 Tolliver Street. Work Phone: two-five-two —" He broke off as the scrape of a key turning in the lock jolted him to attention.

Rob.

Shoving the phone into his pocket again, Matt got up from the sofa where he'd been lounging and aimed a sour expression at the front door. Good old getable Rob had graciously deigned to return. Finally.

The door burst open, and Rob strode into the apartment, arms loaded down with two large canvas shopping bags, and face wreathed in a great big what-an-unbelievable-time-I-just-had grin. He dumped the bags on a table and lifted a hand in greeting when he saw Matt. "Hey, Matthew."

Matt jabbed a finger at the digital clock on the mantel as his own expression turned even more sour. "Hey yourself. What happened? Car break down, and you had to walk all of five blocks from the supermarket?"

Rob gave him an apologetic smile. "I'm a little late, huh?"

"Try an hour late."

Rob pulled off his jacket and tossed it on the sofa. "Sorry. While I was browsing the produce aisle, this cute guy asked me my opinion of casaba melons versus honeydews, and we just started talking. I completely lost track of time. You know how it is — sometimes you meet someone new and start talking and completely lose track of time." He flashed a triumphant grin. "His name's Arlen. We're meeting for drinks tomorrow night."

Matt rolled his eyes. "Wonderful. The old pickup-at-the-melon-display routine. How original." He was acting like an S.O.B., but something about Rob's successful guyguy connection and his own unsuccessful guy-girl one made him feel unusually surly.

"Feeling a little jealous, are we?" Rob reached into one of the canvas bags and started humming a happy tune under his breath as he pulled out chips, deli meats, a box of cookies, and two six-packs of beer.

"Not of a guy named Arlen ... or any other kind of guy for that matter."

Still humming that same inane tune, Rob nodded and began emptying the second bag. "Wonderful. Then he's all mine."

"Be my guest." Matt paused, cleared his throat, and forced his voice to sound matter-of-fact. "Who's Betsy Kincaid?"

Rob cut the humming and turned to him, a casaba melon in one hand, a honeydew in the other, and a massively puzzled expression on his face. "Bets? How do you know about her?"

Matt shrugged, still trying to seem casual, even though by now he couldn't get the memory of her sexily slurred and flustered voice out of his mind. "She called while you were out."

"She called you?"

"Since she doesn't know me, the answer to that brain-twister is no. She called you on your phone." He pulled Rob's cell phone from his pocket and held it out to him. "The one I was left with after you accidentally walked off with mine when I stupidly left it on the kitchen table near yours."

Abandoning his groceries, Rob took the phone and turned it over in his hand. "Oh yeah. Sorry about that, but they're the same model, so it's sort of easy to get confused." He shook his head. "Actually, I knew something was strange when I noticed I suddenly had a bunch of legal apps on my phone that touted subjects I have zero interest in." He grinned and pocketed his phone. "Except maybe for the one advertising that group of young kick-butt, take-no-prisoners lawyers. Those guys sound like they could be a lot of fun. But when I saw the apps, I basically figured out what must have happened. Besides I was too busy with —"

Matt snorted. "The enchanting Arlen."

"Our discussion about melons." Rob issued a derisive snort of his own. "So I really didn't care." He pulled Matt's phone from his pocket and shoved it into Matt's hand. "Here ya go. All straightened out now, and everything's right with the world. So what did Bets want?"

Matt grinned. "To tell you about a plan she had."

Rob nodded as he pulled out his phone again and began tapping keys. "Guess I better call her, then."

Matt held up a hand to stop him. "Wait. Before you do, tell me something about her."

Rob abandoned his call and smiled at Matt. "Why? Interested?"

Rob's gleeful smile immediately triggered a galling memory, and Matt bit back an aggravated groan. Okay, he'd asked for this. It was the same gloating expression Rob always gave him whenever he showed any interest in a member of the opposite sex. Rob had been doing it since fifth grade when Matt had his first crush on a girl, a cute little redhead named Sally. Matt scowled. Now that he remembered it, Rob had spent the better part of a semester making his life miserable with that damn smile. God, sometimes family could be a total pain in the ass. He lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug as though he couldn't really care less. "She has a nice voice."

Rob nodded, his face apparently stuck in that miserable gloat. "The rest of her's pretty nice, too. Least I think it would be to a straight guy. About so tall ..." He put his hand at chin level, and since Matt was a little taller, that would have put her somewhere around his shoulders. " ... light-brown hair, blue eyes. She's one of my best friends."

Matt made an unpleasant sound. "Ah, yes, the gay best friend. God, what a cliché you are."

"Hey, if it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have heard her nice voice."

All right, that much was true enough, so time to drop the snark and act like a civilized person. At least until he got what he wanted. "I guess that address you have for her is up-to-date, right?" He kept his tone nonchalant as he fished for more information. "And I assume she doesn't have ... you know ... a roommate."

Rob narrowed his eyes, his gloating expression giving way to a vaguely suspicious one. "You planning on putting moves on her?"

Matt quickly channeled the best innocent-little-boy smile he could muster. "Of course not. She just sounded sort of down, so I was thinking I'd introduce myself and try to cheer her up."

Rob shook his head. "You are so transparent." He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. "Okay, buddy, she's not married or living with anybody, if that's what you wanted to know. And, yeah, her address is still 1040 Weston Terrace."

Matt punched the information into his contacts list, shoved the phone into his pocket, and headed to the hall closet for his jacket.

"Hey." Rob came after him, raising a hand to get him to stop. "Before you go, what was Betsy's plan?"

As he pulled on his jacket, Matt turned to him with an evil grin. "To get you" — he opened the front door — "and not in a good way, either." Breezing out of the apartment, he slammed the door shut behind him.

* * *

Betsy sat in a corner of the sofa, knees pulled up to chest, as she stared at the coffee table where her cell phone lay. Should she just turn the damn thing off to shut it up?

"Twelve, thirteen, fourteen," she muttered, counting the number of different times it had blasted out Rob's staggeringly perky cartoon-like ringtone, then fallen silent without anyone leaving a message. If she craned her head just so, she could clearly read the "Rob McConnell missed calls" notifications on the screen. Betsy groaned. But it wasn't Rob.

The Voice was at the other end of the line, trying to reestablish contact. Probably so he could confirm Tyler's slice-and-dice opinion of her. She was dull, indecisive, lacking. Hell, she couldn't even threaten her best friend in a convincing way.

She frowned. But so what? It didn't make her a bad person — just an incompetent one.

She stretched her legs out and leaned forward to retrieve her next tequila shot from the coffee table. But the silence suddenly caught her attention, and she picked up the phone, staring at it. The ringtones had stopped again, and this time, thank God, they stayed that way.

Smiling with relief, she deleted the missed calls, set the phone back on the coffee table, and lifted her glass in a grateful salute. Hallelujah, the man had given up at last. It was the first good thing that had happened to her all day. But he really was a persistent S.O.B., she'd say that for him.

Leaning back on the sofa, she resumed her despondent slurping, and after several minutes, she was finally getting back into the swing of it — taking slow, tentative sips, letting the liquid burn its way down her throat, and grimacing with each swallow, because ... God Almighty ... she really did hate the taste of booze.

The phone suddenly blared a perky cartoon reprise, and Betsy's heart went into triple rhythm as she choked down a mouthful of tequila. Slamming the glass onto the table, she clutched her chest and checked the screen.

Rob's name. God, the guy was at it again. Didn't he ever give up? But a few seconds later, he did. The phone fell silent once more, leaving behind the notice that told her The Voice had finally left a message, a message she had no intention of listening to. Not ever.

With a grateful sigh, Betsy relaxed, positive that this time she'd finally heard the last of him.

She picked up the next drink on her road to welcome oblivion, then jumped when there was a knock at the door. Tequila sloshed onto her hand and jeans. She thumped the glass back on the coffee table and brushed liquid from her sodden jeans with her equally sodden hand.

Another knock sounded, and she froze. Not now. Please God, not now. No visitors. Not when she was on a tequila-guzzling roll.

More knocking, and she groaned, wondering if maybe the knocker would just politely go away if she was quiet.

The knocking turned to banging.

Apparently not.

Standing, Betsy braced her hand against the sofa armrest for a moment to steady herself, then walked slowly to the door as the banging continued, making the walls shake and her head throb. Who the hell would make that kind of a racket? A crazy thought hit her, and a wild possibility flashed into her mind.

Tyler Matheson.

She paused, leaned against the vibrating wall, and smiled.

Tyler Matheson coming to her door, falling to his knees, and begging forgiveness for being such an insensitive scumbag.

Her smile faded. Forget it. Tyler wasn't a door-banger. His technique leaned more toward being a stealth dumper.

"Ms. Kincaid. Betsy Kincaid," someone called from the other side of the door. "Are you in there? Are you all right?"

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Excerpted from "Operation Sizzle"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Darcy Lundeen.
Excerpted by permission of The Wild Rose Press, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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