I get that a lot. “That depends.”

“On what?”

I handed him his change and let the tips of my fingers brush his warm palm. A shiver tickled the pulse at my wrist and I smiled. I let my eyes wander up his big arms and chest to his wide shoulders. Anyone who knew me knew I had very few rules when it came to men. I liked them big and bad, and they had to have clean teeth and hands. That was about it. Oh, yeah, I preferred a dirty little mind, although it wasn’t absolutely necessary, since my mind has always been dirty enough for two. Even as a kid, my mind had revolved around sex. While other girls’ Barbies played school, my Barbie played doctor. The kind where Dr. Barbie checked out Ken’s package, then humped him into a sweaty coma.

Now, at the age of twenty-eight, while other women took up golf or ceramics, men were my hobby and I collected them like cheap Elvis memorabilia. As I looked into the sexy blue eyes of Mr. Bad Attitude, I checked my rapid pulse and the ache between my thighs and figured I just might collect him too. I just might take him home. Or in the back of my car, or a stall in the ladies’ bathroom.

“On what you have in mind,” I finally answered, then folded my arms on the bar and leaned forward, giving him a nice view of my perfect breasts.

He lifted his gaze from my cleavage, his eyes hot and hungry. Then he flipped open his wallet and showed me his badge. “I’m looking for Eddie Cordova. I hear you know him.”

Just my luck. A cop. “Yeah, I know Eddie.” I’d dated him once, if you could call what we did dating. The last time I’d seen Eddie, he’d been comatose in the bathroom at Jimmy Woo’s. I’d had to step on his wrist to get him to let go of my ankle.

“Do you know where I can find him?”

Eddie was a small-time thief, and worse, he’d been a lousy lay, and I didn’t feel a twinge of guilt when I said, “I might.” Yeah, I might help this guy out, and the way he was looking at me, I could tell he wanted more than…