B007S2Z1KC EBOK Page 19
But he scratched the dog’s neck anyway, remembering the way Trigger had risen, wary and silent, at his approach. He should leave the dog here.
And the dog’s food. And the dog’s dishes.
The idea had potential. He could move in on Clare slowly, accustom her gradually to his presence in her house and her life.
He limped across the street and staggered back with a twenty pound sack of dog food on his shoulders. Clare might boot him out of her bed, he thought wryly, but she wouldn’t starve his dog.
He fed Trigger in the kitchen. Dinner gulped, the dog bounded after him into the living room and eyed the couch hopefully, tail wagging, big toothy grin stretching his face like a dolphin’s.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Matt warned. “We’re not exactly welcome here.”
Trigger barked. Matt swore. Had they woken Clare?
Gliding to the hall, he listened at the foot of the stairs. The empty darkness echoed with the click of canine toenails on the wooden floor and the rush of air in and out of his lungs. And something else.
The hair on his nape rose in warning. He stilled his breath.
Not the water in the pipes or the wind in the chinks or the cat two doors down... Soft and intermittent and ugly, he heard the choked sound of Clare’s sorrow.
He gripped the banister until the hard knob bruised his palm. She was crying. He’d made her cry. The thought ripped at his gut.
His cop’s brain sprang into defensive action. God knew, Clare had plenty of other reasons for grief. It wasn’t every day she saw one of her best friends shot. It wasn’t every evening she relived her own loss sitting vigil with the wounded man’s wife.
A raw sound escaped into the hall. Matt’s knuckles turned white as his mental list went on. It was almost certainly the first time she’d been screwed by an edgy, insensitive cop with rotten timing and worse control. Or had her life threatened in a drive-by shooting. It was just her tough luck her new lover reacted to her danger by throwing her husband’s murder in her face and yelling at her.
The kindest thing the jerk could do now, Matt considered, was keep the hell away.
Of course he didn’t. Calling himself three kinds of fool, he dragged his sorry carcass up the stairs. He was trained to respond to people in crisis. He would go in and comfort her. It was a simple professional obligation.
Sure it was.
As discreetly as a cracksman, he stole down the short corridor and tapped at her door. All sound within stopped. Well, what did he expect? She wouldn’t want a repeat of tonight’s performance. Any of it, he thought, wincing.
“Clare?”
More silence. Trigger whined from the foot of the stairs. Matt knew just how the dog felt.
He knocked again. “Are you okay?”
The door opened inward. He hadn’t heard her approach from the other side. She stood just inside the narrow gap, blocking the entrance with her body. Silhouetted against the faint light from her window, he couldn’t make out her expression, but her voice was truculent.
“What next? Are you going to yell ‘Police! Open up!’?”
Relief relaxed his muscles. He leaned one hand on the door frame. He had a feeling he was grinning foolishly, but maybe in the dark she couldn’t see.
“I will if you want,” he offered.
“No. Thank you,” she added politely.
She didn’t budge. Didn’t invite him in to dry her tears or hold her close or rumple her neat, white bed.
He sought for a subject to excuse his flagrant violation of her privacy. “I took a look around outside. Everything’s quiet.”
“One o’clock and all is well?” He imagined her eyebrows raised.
“Yeah. I mean, is it?”
The shadow of her shoulders lifted, as if she shrugged or hugged her elbows tighter. “I’m fine. Do you need a blanket?”
“No. I—no.”
“Good night, then.” She turned to lay her hand on the door.
Just as quickly, he reached to prevent her. Because, as the pale light behind her touched her profile, he’d seen the glistening track of tears on her cheek.
“What are you doing?” she demanded as he muscled his way in.
“Tucking you in,” he answered peaceably, his heart beating fast. Would she allow that? “Haven’t you ever been tucked in before?”
“Not recently, no.” Her tone was dry, but she didn’t object as he threw back the disordered covers.
“Well, then, it’s time you were.” He snapped the bottom sheet tight “Fortunately for you, I’ve had experience.”
“Really?” She moved to the foot of the bed. He was very conscious of her watching him as he lined up the blankets with military precision. “Do you have references?”
“Not that much experience,” he said hastily.
Her watery chuckle entranced him.
Fishing a pillow from the floor, he plumped it up, smoothed it down, and stepped back to view the results. She didn’t offer an opinion, so he prompted her.
“Almost perfect,” he said.
“Almost?”
“Yeah. It’s missing something.” He snapped his fingers. “A hot water bottle.”
“I don’t have a hot water bottle.”
“No?” He scraped his jaw with his thumb, pretending to consider. “I can’t really tuck you in without a hot water bottle. Unless, of course, I’m prepared to offer my body for the cause.”
Against the pale rectangle of light, her shoulders stiffened. “I don’t think...”
“It’s okay,” he assured her. “As an officer of the peace, I’m trained in making sacrifices.”
Her defensive posture tore at his heart.
“It’s okay,” he said again, gently.
He folded down a corner of the neatly aligned blankets. Turning his back, he skimmed out of his T-shirt. He lay down on the other side of the bed, on top of the covers.
Extending one arm cautiously along her pillow, he waited.
She shivered in front of the partially opened window, wavering like the curtains in the breeze. Finally, propelled by practicality or need or cold, she crawled in beside him. Under the covers. Flat on her back, staring straight up, stiff as a corpse in the morgue.
It was a start, Matt told himself.
He flexed his outstretched arm, bringing her against him with calculated care. They lay down together on the soft, narrow bed, and her lashes were wet against his throat.
She relaxed by degrees. First her hand on his chest, then her shoulders, then her neck. Her fine, smooth hair tickled his jaw. Without turning his head, he could inhale the fresh scent of it and the darker perfume of her skin. His headache ebbed, in spite of the tension making itself felt elsewhere in his body.
She sighed, a small, confiding whisper of air that stirred the hair on his chest and other things, lower down.
To distract himself, he asked hoarsely, “Tough day?”
Her breath caught, a soft sound suspended between a laugh and a sob. “I’ve had better.”
It was important that he say the words, so he did, staring over her head into the darkness. “I’m sorry, Clare.”
Her fingers curled, as if she tested the resilience of his muscle. “Thank you,” she said gravely.
“For what?”
She hesitated. “For making me feel better.”
His heart fissured. “Yeah, I’m real good at that.”
Clare lifted her head from his chest. “What is it, Matt?”
She was so precious, so perfect and precious in his arms. He’d hurt her. He’d let her down. Maybe he would always let her down, but at least he could try to match her honesty. He wasn’t used to sharing himself with anyone but his partner. And Will, thank God, had never required words. But after the way Matt had snapped at her tonight, he figured he owed them to Clare.
“I’m just not much good in the hand holding department, that’s all. Never have been.”
“And just whose hand have you tried holding?”
“You got a girl on the side, cowboy?”
He was genuinely appalled. “Hell, no. Sugar, I can’t handle more than you.”
He felt her waiting. When he didn’t speak, she took a shot into the darkness, hitting her target with devastating accuracy. “Who got to be the man of the house when your dad was out playing cops and robbers?”
He was silent.
“Who was there for your mother when your father was gone?”
“I was the oldest,” he said defensively. “I was supposed to help.”
Her fingers touched his jaw. “That’s a lot to ask of a child.”
“I’m no good at it,” he muttered.
She laid her cheek against his arm, and he felt the knot in his chest ease. “You do all right. You were there for me today. I’m grateful.”
Her words were like ointment on a wound, healing and stinging at the same time. He’d never had a woman content with his rough comfort And he didn’t deserve Clare’s gratitude now. He tightened his arm around her. “Sure. You can count on me. Supercop to the Rescue. After you’ve been shot at, yelled at, and generally screwed.”
She was quiet for so long after that he thought maybe she’d fallen asleep. That was okay. Her being unconscious made it easy to keep his hand from straying down her back and his mind from drifting into trouble. Easier, anyway. Sunk in her sheets, surrounded by her fragrance, it was hard to dismiss the memories of their lovemaking.
In spite of his stupid self-confession and various physical complaints, the twinge in his thigh, the throb between his legs, Matt felt curiously peaceful. Something about the feel and the fit of Clare in his arms satisfied some soul deep ache inside him.
Her cheek moved against his shoulder. So, she was awake after all.
“Actually,” she said softly, “I liked the screwed part.”
His heart pounded under her hand. Maybe she’d forgiven him, but that didn’t mean she was going to give him the chance to hurt her again. Hell, he didn’t want another chance. She deserved a secure relationship and an unclouded future, and he was the last man to promise her those things.
Her light touch drifted down his belly, and his muscles contracted. “Sugar, this isn’t going to solve anything.”
“I know,” she whispered.
The gentle movement of her hand ceased. He clenched his molars on his frustration. He bore the long, aching moments, willing his earlier satisfaction to return, struggling to recapture the easy contentment he’d felt just holding her close. Only now there was no peace, only pressure and tension. He was too conscious she was awake and wanting him back. Her naked feet rubbed restlessly together. Every little breath she took pressed her puckered nipples into his side.
“Of course,” he rasped at last, “I did offer to sacrifice my body for the cause.”
***
Clare felt temptation flood her veins like sap rising in the spring. She ought to resist it, she knew. Matt was right. Their making love would solve nothing. She needed to reestablish the distance between them before he got hurt, before she got hurt.
Yet even as her mind argued, her body acquiesced to the hundred tiny sensual pulls of his: his scent stealing into her lungs, his strength pillowing her head, the implicit promise of that mobile mouth.
He lifted his head and kissed her, nuzzling her lips. Without thinking, she parted to admit him. His tongue explored the tender inner surface of her lower lip before he caught it between his teeth. When she gasped, he followed her indrawn breath with his tongue.
His hand made gentle circles on her back, urging her closer. The light cover that separated their bodies slid away as she wriggled against him. His muscular chest received her weight. His jeans abraded her smooth bare thighs.
It wasn’t enough.
She reached for the button at his waistband, but Matt had other ideas. Threading his fingers with hers, he brought her hand to his mouth and pressed soft kisses in her palm, warm kisses on the point of her chin, damp kisses down her throat to where her breasts peaked against her cotton nightshirt.
She arched her back to give him better access. Her heart soaked up his tenderness like thirsty ground absorbs the rain.
Earlier, his unbridled passion had swept her away. His leisurely seduction now devastated her. Now he knew where to touch, and how. His fingers sought and stroked, fluid, coaxing. He lifted her nightgown up and away. The prickling caress of his beard roughened jaw against her throat, the taunting brush of his body hair on the sensitive tips of her breasts, made her quiver like lake water.
His hands shaped her body, washing every rounded surface, seeking every crevice. His exquisite care made her feel feminine, safe, cherished, loved. Even if it was an illusion, it was a sweet and powerful one. She floated, lapped by sensation, too heavy with pleasure to do more than stroke his thick, soft hair and murmur in response.
“Sugar,” he breathed against her mouth. “Sweet. So sweet.”
He lifted her to lie on top of him. Body to body, she moved and he flowed with her, never stopping his slow, drugging kisses or the unhurried kneading of his hands. He shucked his jeans, making her moan and sigh as he arched off the mattress. Mindlessly, she rotated her pelvis, seeking more of the delicious pressure. Grasping her hips, he squeezed her buttocks and filled her with his strength.
With one long, slow thrust, he entered and completed her. Warmth radiated outward from her center where they joined along the connecting rivers of blood and nerve until every part of her was replete with him. Delight tingled in her fingertips, bubbled in her veins, spilled with her breath. And with the rising tide of pleasure came the slow, deep welling of emotion, surging from a secret place in her heart like an underground spring.
Love.
The realization shattered her. Crying out in revelation, in protest, in delight, she convulsed around him. His hands hardened. Twice more he lifted her and plunged. And then he let her collapse, spent, onto his broad, damp chest, his touch soothing on her neck and shoulders, his deep voice encouraging in her ear.
Clare didn’t hear the soft, comforting words. Her body still trembled. Her mind still spun.
She was in love with Detective Sergeant Matt Dunn. With Supercop, an inarticulate hero whose job put him in constant danger. And she didn’t know what in the world to do about it.
Chapter 13
Something was bothering Clare, Matt thought the next morning.
She would have made a lousy undercover. Everything she felt was in her face to read. Her soft mouth was closed on a secret and her eyes were worried and wide. Concern for her rode him like an itch.
With jerky movements, she rinsed and refilled the coffeepot. In spite of the amount of coffee the two of them were putting away lately, he didn’t think caffeine had caused her agitation. He wanted to believe she was rethinking the wisdom of staying in the neighborhood. More likely, she was regretting last night. Regretting him.
Damn. He didn’t know what he could say that wouldn’t make the situation worse. He’d never been good with words. According to Marcia—or was it Kimberly?—he was an inarticulate macho block with the sensitivity of an iceberg. So he hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and leaned against the kitchen counter and watched Clare count scoops into a brown paper filter. Just like last night.
Grounds spilled over the countertop. Her breath hissed.
“You all right?”
“Yes.” She didn’t look at him. “I lost count.”
“Uh huh.” He didn’t even try to hide his disbelief. When she swung past him on her way to the refrigerator, he caught her elbow and pulled her close. “What’s wrong?”
Her gold tipped lashes shielded her eyes. “What makes you think anything’s wrong?”
“My highly honed powers of observation?”
That one brought her head up, swift humor lighting her face. She was so beautiful his heart stuttered. Violet shadows bruised the thin skin under he
r eyes.
“If you’re having second thoughts about getting away...” he said.
Her surprise appeared genuine. “No. It’s not that.”
Doggedly, he continued. “I could help. If it’s the cost of a hotel that’s stopping you, you could stay with my parents.”
Now where the hell had that come from? he wondered, panicked.
She must have wondered the same thing, because her eyes brightened wickedly. “Inviting me home to meet the family, cowboy?”
“No. I just figured...”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. That’s not it, and I wouldn’t leave the project anyway.”
“What, then?”
Her gaze fell. He watched, fascinated, as a wild blush climbed from the delicate points of her collarbone to the roots of her red-gold hair. “Don’t take this the wrong way, okay?” she asked. “I don’t expect you to do anything about it.”
She wanted him to leave.
“I’m not going,” he said, his voice harsh.
She laughed shakily. “Maybe you should. But I’m not asking you to go.”
He waited, his body braced for a blow.
“I didn’t plan on this, but...” Her eyes raised to his, and what he’d thought before was true. Everything she felt was reflected on her face. “I’m afraid I might be falling in love with you.”
Her declaration reverberated between them like a shot.
When Matt had been hit in the holdup, it had taken a while for his body to register what had actually happened. Initially, he’d felt no pain, just the shock of impact and a spreading numbness and a seeping realization that things weren’t ever going to be the same.
He felt like that now.
I love you. He’d heard the words before, and they sometimes—no, always—signaled trouble. “But I love you,” Susan or Amy would wail, brandishing their demands, attacking his hours or his moods or his silence. As if their feelings justified their claims on him.
But he’d never before heard the words from Clare.
She lifted her chin. “I said I don’t expect you to do anything about it.”
And he’d never before heard them offered with no expectation of return.