"Sure," I said. "But suckering me with puppies is a cheap ploy. And I'm not big on crowds, so let's keep it simple. Nothing fancy."
"So that's a yes." He shifted, as nervous as a schoolboy who'd just secured his prom date. "Real dinner, real food, my treat. And no puppies."
***
A week later I dreamt I'd taken a bath. My skin still damp, I crawled into bed. His warm body curled against my back, and a hand smoothed my wet hair, slid down my spine, pushed away the covers. Fingers crawled over my hip, following the back of my leg till his tickles turned into caresses. So much pleasure. I turned to kiss him and smelled toothpaste.
But it was Stone's pale eyes weighing me down. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Bath water rose around the bed, splashed over the covers, then over my mouth. I choked, coughed. The room was flooding. Soon the windows and doors would seal with water pressure. I swam to the windows and slapped the glass for neighbors to see me. All their windows were black. Where the hell were they?
My eyes snapped open. My chest was covered in sweat, the covers pushed off, but I was in my real bed, my real apartment. Breathing and alive and alone.
As I rolled toward the window, I noted a shadow cast over me. A bulky man's shadow.
I startled. "Jesus, Sam."
He opened his eyes, blinked and reached for my shoulder before snapping back his hand, like touching me had been a faulty impulse. Sitting up, he glanced to the doorway, the windows, the bathroom, scanning the room for an intruder, as if he wasn't the real trespasser.
"What the hell are you doing in my bed?"
"Must have drifted off." He scrubbed at his day-old beard growth, then wiped his droopy eyes and refocused. On my chest. "Whoa. Don't remember you wearing nighties when I was here."
I yanked the comforter to my chin.
"God, I love this bed." Stretching, he pressed his long torso into the headboard so his gray Cougar sweatshirt lifted to show his belly and that tempting hairline. Then he leaned over me, his musky body hovering inches from my face, and checked the clock. "Damn, time flies."
"Exactly how long have you been here—stop, I don't want to know. Just tell me when you're leaving." I rubbed at the latest heart attack in my chest.
"Couple hours, tops. I swear. Hey, I haven't been sleeping much lately. Lotta night duty." He winked.
"Thanks, I won't bother asking her name."
"Jealous?"
"No. And how the hell did you—never mind. The key. Remind me to change the locks." I looked to Max, who was fast asleep on his bed, his collar removed so it didn't jingle. Clearly Sam had too much leeway with my dog. "And you'd better start looking for a new home, Mister Max."
"Christ, relax. You'd think you hated the sight of me." Sam swung his legs off the opposite side of the bed and paused, his gun bulging at the back of his waistband, his shoulders squared with the window. He lifted his chin toward the skyscape. "Weird how the city always looks happier from your window."
For a few quiet seconds we both took in the view. Despite a bright morning sun, fog wove a thick scarf between the buildings so the city seemed to float on a cloud. He'd no right to invade my home, my life, and yet I couldn't muster anger.
"Keep looking that direction so I can get dressed," I said.
He peeked over his shoulder. "Decent yet?"
"No, damn it." I scurried into the bathroom and pulled my fat robe over the pink silk slip I'd bought to christen my new dating life. Which didn't include Sam.
Leaning over the sink, I caught my thoughts. The sight of him had frightened me. Or was it the dream? Oddly, my nightmares had subsided when Sam had bunked here. Even when he was at the clinic, my nights remained dreamless. Maybe my brain could only worry about so many men at once. But since he'd left, my dreams had shifted from fighting to pull Luke out of a burning car (or house or cafe or whatever latest trap my mind provided), to pulling myself out.
And then there were the dreams of kissing Sam, of touching him and undressing him, and then awakening to an empty bed and foolishly wishing he leaned over me in real life. And here he sat, terrifyingly close. Had Sam touched me, I would've fallen as fast as a cement block.
But I'd always paid a price for passion. Like that night of wild abandon with a Marine Corps major in Afghanistan, only to get caught when his CO paid an unexpected visit. I took the fall to save them both a court-martial hearing during war-time operations. After only nine days of embedded duty, I owed my editor an explanation why I'd been shipped home.
I splashed water on my face, pinched toothpaste into my mouth, smeared on lip gloss, brushed my pale hair from my flushed face, and tied the robe. My game face on, I returned to the bedroom. Empty.
I rushed to the kitchen.
"Still here." Sam unloaded bagels from a white sack, glancing up from under his brows. "And if you're going to pretend to be pissed, you probably shouldn't wear makeup."
I dropped onto a dining chair. "Give me one good reason why I let you do this to me."
"Boredom. Girl can only do so many Pilates workouts." A grin teased the corner of his mouth.
And still he made me laugh. "You're incorrigible."
As I peeled the lid from the cream cheese, I watched Sam fetch plates, napkins, knives, moving about my kitchen like it was his own, a casual familiarity that thawed my resentment. This was a home built for a couple, a family, not a spinster mourning her dead fiancé.
Then I saw my grandfather's coat hung over the back of the far chair. My face went slack, my small joy in seeing Sam faded. He'd returned our last link.
"Nice shots, by the way." He pointed his bagel at the wall.
"Oh, shit." I shielded my eyes with my hand.
Dotting the corkboard were photos I'd snapped of Sam: his throat, his shoulder, his jaw, his hypnotizing hands. Howard had hand-delivered the eight-by-tens to me with a second round of spring rolls. When printed in black and white, life seemed less blurry to me, less threatening. Even Sam looked less edgy. I'd been careful not to take a full-face shot of Sam to protect both of us, but he might demand I burn these prints anyway. Yet his disapproval wasn't what I feared. The close-ups were intimate, caressing. Revealing. Of both of us.
"Didn't think I looked so gruff." He took a bite, lingering over the image of his battered knuckles. He tapped the picture with his bagel and mumbled, "Not sure I'd want to know that guy."
"That makes two of us." I attacked the cream cheese with a butter knife.
"So," he said as I was about to take a bite. "Who's been sleeping in my bed?"
I dropped my bagel. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Nope. Got crumbs all over it. Where's that clean freak I used to know?" He winked and slid onto the banquette opposite me, cringing a second before resting back, probably to gain sympathy. "Brought lattes, too, by the way."
He gestured toward the bag, so I reached inside and pulled out two cups. Barely warm. "You and Howard could use lessons on hot deliveries."
Sam growled over his next bite, and I snickered to myself.
As I set the first cup in the microwave, I noted the clock, which sneered back at me. Nine a.m. The latest I'd slept in months. No, years.
Sam followed my eyes, the grooves in his forehead deepening, then glanced back to my bed. "Wait, what else has changed around here?"
The microwave beeped. I gave Sam my back as I fetched the first latte. We'd been down this road, and my personal life was off limits to his investigation. When I delivered his drink to the table, Sam wrenched a bite of bagel like it was flesh. I stared at his circus of manners, unfazed by his intimidation tactics, till he broke eye contact.
"Excuse me," he said with a full mouth, wiping cream cheese from his cheek. "Been a while since I ate with decent company. Eat with the grunts long enough..." He raised a shoulder.
"So you're still undercover." I sank onto the chair, not needing a verbal 'yes' when his frown confirmed my theory. Why would I think he'd get out of the game? A close call with death was probably like getting high to a cop. I shook my head, stupidly giving myself away when I knew damn well my opinion on the matter didn't count to him.
"Mamma likes to worry about me, Max. I think I got under her skin." Max sat at Sam's feet, staring until Sam forfeited chunks of bagel. A real pair of cons, those two.
I sighed, examining Sam openly: his welcoming eyes, his athletic physique, the bulk of his shoulders when he sat forward, his muscular hands handling the knife. Beautiful details that made beautiful photos and would soon end up six feet under if Sam had his way.
Then he grinned that hopelessly boyish grin and melted my reservations.
"Don't you ever get lost in the game, Sam, never knowing where you'll eat, or sleep, unsure who is or who isn't your friend? I know it's your job, but at the end of the day, when you take off all your disguises, what's left of you?" I didn't care that his brows were tanking or that my voice was cracking. "What happens to your humanity when you keep it on a shelf so long you don't even recognize it? When you lose yourself. I just don't see what's in this for you."
He gagged on his food, disguising his laughter, but I felt the sting well enough. When he'd regained his composure, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, studying me as smile lines framed his eyes. "Wow. I've really missed you, Jules."
The microwave beeped for the second latte, breaking my focus. I rubbed my forehead, pushing away the oncoming headache from either oversleeping, or getting my caffeine fix too late, or being shocked awake by a hooligan. Sam alone was reason for a migraine.
I brought the steaming cup to my lips. Only it wasn't coffee.
"Chai tea latte. No water, no foam." Sam didn't even look up when he spoke.
"Right. How did you—"
Shit.
So he'd followed me to the café to watch my date with Stone. Spied on me instead of running. "Alright, Detective, time you told me why you're really here."
"Mamma's all business today, Max." He fed Max another chunk and swiped his hands together, throwing crumbs onto the floor. His elbows thudded onto the table. "Need a favor."
"Doesn't everyone," I muttered.
"What's that supposed to mean? Jules..."
"None of your business." I yanked the robe ties, suffocating myself before spouting something I'd regret. I predicted Sam's less than cordial response on hearing Stone's puppy tactics. "This is your last favor and only if it's not dangerous."
"Depends on your perspective."
I leaned onto the table, eye to eye with him. "Not dangerous, as in won't get me killed."
"Nope." He leaned closer, that devilish grin only a slap away.
"Or get you killed."
Cocking his head, he considered the door. "Maybe. But not for a long time." He winked and my skin started to warm.
"There's always a catch with you." I leaned back in my chair. "No more surprises, Sam. You give me one heart attack after another, and I just can't take any more." I pushed aside my plate and rubbed at the indent in my chest where my heart used to be.
Sam burst off the banquette with such energy he made me jump. From the counter he fetched my house phone, from my corkboard the lone surviving menu. I stared down at the fresh hollow his body had made in the banquette's red vinyl and considered how long the bench would take to recover its former shape.
Resting a hip on the table in front of me, he said, "I need you to make a date with Stone."
My jaw dropped to my knees.
"You'll be safe, I'll shadow you." He held out the phone.
"Like you shadowed me to the café? No thanks." I shook my head. "Remind me to get the 'Gullible' tattoo removed from my forehead. You've got a partner to do your dirty work. I've no reason to help you, no reason to care. I don't even know you."
Sam rested the phone on the table and blinked. Maybe nervous, maybe hurt. "That how you really feel?"
"A few days hiding out in my home didn't make us compatriots." I clutched my robe, my lungs tightening as the truth popped to the surface like a buoy held underwater and released. "You're a secret, Sam. I don't know anything about you, where you come from, what you really do, who you really are. Now you're letting yourself into my apartment and into my bed, for God's sake. You're too practiced at these games. So no, I don't know what to believe. Not about you, or Stone, or the fires, or all those people who died. I'm in over my head, and I could use a lot less bullshit right now."
He shifted his shoulders, but added nothing.
"I've got to testify, you know. Maybe even against you." My voice faded with my last words. That I would have to name Sam in court as my abductor turned my stomach. Even if a jury believed he'd saved my life, he'd broken laws, violated the trust imbued in his badge. Assuming he really owned one. I'd chosen to believe Sam, but maybe that, too, was a lie.
Sam took stock of me, the room, resuming his identity as the detective angling his next ploy, weighing his next words. "I need someone I can trust. Someone who knows the situation, someone who knows me. Who believes in me. If that ain't you… Same deal as before. You want out, you tell me now."
By now my gaze was burning a hole in his face. Of course I was loyal. Of course I could be trusted. I'd proven myself to both of us, risking life and limb and sanity, not to mention whatever integrity I had left.
What more could he want from me?
"You
know
me, Jules," he whispered as he leaned closer, slamming a fist into his chest. "You know me."
I swallowed, looking down. "I'm sorry, I don't."
Damn right I should refuse him. And he could stare with those big, gorgeous eyes all he wanted. I wasn't rolling over this time.
My head dropped into my hands. Still, the weight of his stare bore down on me. Every instinct told me to trust him. Every cell of my body wanted him in my life, inside my robe, inside my body. Hell, I wasn't even safe from myself.
"Then do this for yourself." His voice sounded hardened, his words clipped. "Stone's not the man you think he is."