How to Score (12 page)

What the hell. He might as well play it that way. He abruptly lurched to the left and smacked his hand down on the lid of the file folder.

She nearly toppled them both over in her efforts to steady him. “Are-are you okay?” she asked breathily.

“Yeah. Just not as steady on my feet as I thought.”

“We need to get you to bed.”

“Okay.” He scooped up the folder and tucked it under his free arm.

“What’s that?”

“Files for a case I’m working on,” he said.

She frowned. “You’re supposed to be resting, not working. Besides, you’re not supposed to make any important decisions for the next twenty-four hours.”

“So I won’t decide anything. I’ll just read over the files.”

He readjusted his arm around her back, pulling her closer, and inhaled the scent of her hair. Candy apples—that’s what it reminded him of. A strand brushed against his cheek, snagging on his five-o’clock shadow. The sudden, unexpected intimacy sent a shockwave of arousal through him as she helped him through his bedroom door.

“Here you go.” She stopped beside his king-sized bed and eased him down on the black-and-white-striped comforter. He felt a sudden, irrational urge to grab her and pull her onto the mattress with him.

Instead, he set the file facedown on the floor between the nightstand and the bed. She moved to the other side of the bed and fluffed the pillows, stacking two of them together against the plain wooden headboard.

“There.” She watched him lean back against them. “Can I get you your pajamas?”

“I don’t have any.”

“So what do you sleep in?” Judging from the way her ears turned as pink as a rabbit’s, she realized the answer as soon as she asked the question. She waved her hand as if to erase the question. “Never mind. Do you have any sweatpants, or anything more comfortable than jeans?”

He started to nod. The movement made his head throb. “Top drawer of my dresser.”

Sammi walked across the room, opened the drawer, and pulled out a pair of neatly folded gray sweats. She handed them to him, then regarded him with a frown.

“Your T-shirt’s covered with blood, but I’m afraid you’ll damage your bandage if you pull it off over your head. Maybe I should cut it off you.”

His mouth quirked in a grin. “Sounds kinky, but okay.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “Don’t get excited. You’re on your own with the pants.”

“Darn.”

“I’ll go get you some ice while you change. Do you have any scissors?”

“Yeah. In the kitchen drawer by the stove.”

She pulled the door closed behind her. He scrambled out of his jeans, folded them, and pulled on his sweats as she knocked on the door.

“You decent?” she called.

“Yeah.” Physically, at least. Mentally was another story.

She stepped into the room, somehow raising the temperature of it. Her gaze rested on the jeans and socks he’d just removed, and her left eyebrow rose. “You fold your dirty clothes?”

He lifted his shoulders. “I don’t like things messy.”

She moved toward him and knelt on the bed. “Wow. Your mom taught you well.”

The thought of his mom made his jaw tighten. “Yeah.”

“Where is she, anyway?”

“She’s dead.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

Oh, sheez. Her face held a stricken look, as if she thought it had just happened. “She died of cancer when I was fourteen,” he added to clarify.

“That must have been awful,” she murmured.

Beyond awful. He’d not only lost a mother, but he’d had to become one for his nine-year-old brother, because their dad raised his alcohol consumption to a new high. But why was he blabbing about his personal life? He never talked about this stuff. It only made people feel sorry for him, and he hated sympathy as much as he hated people urging him to share his pain. That blow to his head must have done more damage than he’d realized.

“Yeah, well, everyone has to deal with something. Ready to do surgery on my shirt?”

“I am if you are.” Sammi smiled, but her eyes looked worried. “I promise to be very, very careful.”

Given her track record, he was probably taking his life in his hands, but she needed a chance to redeem herself if she was ever going to get over her hazard-to-all-mankind mentality. “I’m not worried. I’d like to make two requests, though.”

“Yes?”

“Cut the shirt at the back of my neck instead of at the front, and aim the scissors down.”

“So that if it slips, I won’t cut your jugular?”

He grinned. “Nothing personal.”

“I understand.” She moved beside him, her breasts even with his face. A hint of cleavage peeked out the V neck of her T-shirt. He breathed in the fresh green scent of her.

“You must think I’m the world’s biggest klutz,” she said.

Actually, I’m thinking that you’re the world’s best-smelling woman—and I’m fighting the urge not to stare at your breasts
. “Nah. Accidents happen.”

“But they happen around me more than around the average person.” Her fingers were warm on his neck as she lifted the fabric of his shirt.

“Well, if you’re worrying about it, that makes it more likely to happen. Your thoughts program your actions.”

Sammi drew back and looked at him. “Someone else just told me almost the exact same thing.”

Oh, hell. If he’d made a slipup like that on an undercover operation, his ass would be grass. He feigned a blank expression. “Oh, yeah? Who was that?”

“My life coach.”

“Sounds like a smart guy. Is he helping you?”

“It’s too early to be sure, but yeah, I think so.” She turned her attention back to his shirt, putting her breasts in his face again. “Sit really still, okay?”

“Okay.” He complied to the point of not breathing. The blade of the scissors slid icily against his skin. Just when he thought his lungs were going to burst, he heard a snip.

She must have been holding her breath, too, because her breasts relaxed against him as she exhaled. The scissors clunked when she put them on the nightstand. “I’m just going to rip the fabric the rest of the way with my hands, okay?”

“Can I videotape this? I’ve always wanted to have a woman literally rip the clothes off my body.”

She grinned. “Very funny.”

“You think? I would have rated it just nominally amusing.”

He was rewarded with a laugh. “I’d better get behind you to do this.” She kicked off her sandals and crawled behind him on the mattress, sitting on her knees, one on each side of him. “Now sit still.” The shirt ripped loudly as she pulled it. Cool air hit his back.

She scrambled off the bed. “Raise your hands over your head.” She reached for the bottom of his shirt and lifted it off. “There!” she said triumphantly.

He lowered his arms and saw her gaze rest on his naked chest. It took her a moment to raise her eyes to his face, and when she did, her cheeks were pink. “Do you have any button-up shirts?”

“None that aren’t starched.”

“Well, you can’t pull anything over your head.”

“So I’ll just go without.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Fine.” She edged toward the door. “I’ll let you rest, and I’ll see what I can find in the kitchen to fix for dinner.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Surely there’s something.”

“Yeah,” he said dryly. “The phone for calling in a pizza.”

“Well, then, I’ll call Chloe and have her bring over some groceries.”

“Really, Sammi—pizza’s fine.”

“No man I injure is going to eat pizza for dinner.”

How many men had she injured before she instituted that particular rule? And how many kitchens had she burned down as a result? Voicing the questions would probably serve no good purpose, so he kept them to himself.

“Chloe needs to bring me a toothbrush, a change of clothes, and few other things, anyway.” She paused at the doorway. “Do you need anything?”

Yeah.
You. Naked. Here. Now
. He squirmed uneasily. He had no business entertaining thoughts like that, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. “No.”

“Okay. Call me if you do.” She closed the door as she left the room, leaving him to the fantasies throbbing in his wounded head.

An hour later, Sammi opened Chase’s front door to find Chloe on the other side, juggling two paper grocery sacks, a duffel bag, Chase’s swap meet lockbox, and Joe on a red leash.

Sammi reached for the duffel bag and the dog’s leash. “Thanks so much for bringing all this stuff.”

“No problem.”

Joe jumped on Sammi, putting his front paws on her shoulder, and licked her forehead. She patted his warm shoulder. “Good to see you, too, boy. Now get down.”

Joe obediently dropped to all fours.

“Sit.”

The dog complied. His stubby tail thudded on the carpet.

Chloe stared. “He actually did it!”

Sammi proudly stroked Joe’s head. “I’ve been using that dog-training book my life coach suggested.”

“Wow. Maybe you should get a training book, too.” Chloe headed for the kitchen. “Only instead of learning to sit, you could learn not to hurt the hotties.”

“That’s what my life coach is helping me with.”

“His results aren’t very impressive.” Chloe set the lockbox and grocery bags on the counter. “Where’s the hunk?”

“In his bedroom.”

“And you’re out here? What’s wrong with you, girl? That man is smoking!”

Sammi had to agree—especially after seeing Chase without a shirt. She’d known the man was buff, but the sight of his bare chest had practically made steam come out of her ears. Just thinking about his ripped abs brought on a fresh wave of heat.

“I’ll give you this—you really know how to pick ’em.” Chloe plucked a grape off the clump that Sammi pulled out of the grocery bag. “So what’s the deal, Sammi—the hotter they are, the more seriously you injure them?”

“Very funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was just trying to figure out your methodology.” She ate another grape. “Actually, it’s a very strategic move. Get him alone, stay at his place, cook for him, then nurse him back to health. It’s the perfect setup to make him fall in love with you.”

Sammi rolled her eyes as she pulled a box of lasagna noodles from the grocery bag. “Like I hurt him on purpose.”

“Who knows? Maybe your subconscious is actually working in your favor this time.”

“You think my subconscious is demented enough to deliberately conk him out?”

“Who knows what goes on in that mind of yours?”

“I just want a normal relationship without all the inadvertent S and M.” She put a package of ground meat in the refrigerator. “But not necessarily with this guy. He’s FBI, Chloe.”

“So?”

“He’s a cop. An über cop.” And Chloe knew what that meant. There was no doubt their dad had loved them, but he’d been strict and inflexible.

“Not all cops are the same, Sammi. That’s like saying you’re like Ms. Arnette because you’re both curators.”

“That’s not an apt comparison. She didn’t set out to be a curator; she was Chandler Phelps’s personal assistant, and she was given the museum job as a reward for years of loyal service.”

“Did you ever wonder exactly what services she performed?”

Sammi had heard rumors, but she’d never taken them seriously. Ms. Arnette was too stiff and stodgy and straitlaced to be anyone’s mistress. Besides, Chandler Phelps’s wife had been an acclaimed beauty, which meant Mr. Phelps apparently went for the glamorous type. Nothing about Ms. Arnette fit the description. Sammi shook her head. “No way. I doubt the poor old thing has ever even been kissed. Which is really sad, when you think about it.”

Chloe ate another grape. “Sad would be you ignoring this hunk because of some stupid anticop prejudice.”

“I can’t believe that you, of all people, are saying this to me. You don’t like control freaks any more than I do.”

“Yeah, but not all cops are control freaks. And besides, you have no room to talk.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re pretty controlling yourself, always trying to fix everything for everyone.”

Sammi gazed at her, wounded. “I just try to help.”

Chloe raised an eyebrow. “Dad thought he was helping, too.”

Unbidden, her father’s voice echoed in Sammi’s head.

You need to bring up your grade in math.
Never mind that it was a B, the first one she’d gotten in three years.

In the real world, second place is the same as losing. You need to practice harder.
Never mind that a sprained ankle had kept her out of training two weeks before the track race.

It’s ten-oh-two, and I told you to be home by ten o’clock. You need to learn the importance of punctuality, so you’re grounded for a month.
Never mind that according to her watch, she was three minutes early.

Chloe plucked another grape and leaned against the counter. “I think you’re worrying about nothing. From what I saw, this guy is nothing like Dad. And he seems a big step up from the wimps and losers you usually date.”

“I don’t just date wimps and losers!”

“Oh, come on. You find men who are projects, not partners.”

There was no denying that she didn’t have a great track record. She’d dated a guy in college who was in his ninth year of a four-year degree because he couldn’t decide on a major. She’d gone out with a moody pharmaceutical sales rep who’d turned out to be addicted to his own samples, and a stockbroker who always forgot his wallet, so she ended up paying for all their dates.