Take Your Time

CHAPTER ONE

"I don't answer blocked numbers. Or unknown numbers. Or really any numbers, ever. In fact, you should probably just text me."

- Delilah Sinclair, waiting for her phone to stop ringing so she can use it again.

_________

"You get one phone call. Make it quick."

The burly policeman walks away, his broad shoulders filling out his uniform in a way that would normally make me do a double take. Except, right now, seeing as I'm currently standing smack dab in the middle of a jailhouse in a notoriously sleazy Boston suburb, surrounded by drug dealers and drunk drivers and more than a few ladies of the night in seriously killer plastic stiletto heels, I really have no business checking anyone out. Especially a police officer.

See, handsome single cops don't really go for the criminal element when it comes to the women in their lives.

Not that I'm a criminal.

At least, I wasn't... until about six hours ago.

Sigh.

I'd tell you all about it but, honestly, it's kind of a long story. And I don't think Officer McCuffMeAnytimeYouPlease was messing around when he said make it quick and stalked away to file a report without even bothering to give me a good frisking.

My brown eyes dart a glance down the dingy fluorescent-lit hallway and, to my great amusement, I find he's watching me with disapproval behind the smeared plexiglass pane separating me from freedom. Judging by his expression, I have a feeling even my infamous puppy-dog look won't get me out of this one — his brows are pulled together and there's a muscle jumping in his cheek as his frosty stare sweeps from my strawberry blonde waist-length waves to the perfect shimmery pink polish coating each one of my fingernails. I can't help but notice he seems personally offended by my outfit.

Normally, a man giving me crap for my fashion choices would inspire several choice expletives; however, seeing as I'm currently dressed in a ridiculously skimpy French maid uniform that just barely covers my curves, complete with garters, enough cleavage to shock a priest, and a pair of patent black leather pumps that lend an extra four inches to my height... I suppose I can't really blame him for judging me. A little.

Who the hell gets arrested looking like Plumette?

The officer's lingering eyes take special note of the frilly white apron cinched tight around my waist, but it's the thigh-high stockings that really seem to do him in. When he spots the sheer black lace, his eyes go from tepid pools of displeasure to pure, polar ice-caps that would freeze a lesser woman where she stood.

He probably thinks he's intimidating.

Hell, he should be intimidating.

Little does he know, intimidating is my type.

You see I, Delilah Sinclair — better known as "Lila" to those who learned my name the normal way, rather than reading it off the thin plastic license in my favorite leather Kate Spade wallet as their partner smacked metal cuffs a bit too aggressively around my wrists and shoved me into the backseat of a squad car — have always found an undeniable thrill in chasing men who don't want me.

The stiff-upper-lips.

The commitment-phobes.

The bad boys.

The ones a smarter girl would take one look at, turn on her sensible shoes, and run from, full-tilt. Do not stop, do not pass go, do not rack up two hundred dollars in credit card debt at your favorite outlet store, even though they're having a truly incredible sale.