The Witness (25 page)

Though she had water stored on the second floor, she walked down to the kitchen. She did need that moment.

She understood that sex and the immediate aftermath comprised a very vulnerable time, for body and mind. She’d prided herself on being able to fully participate, and recover her control and faculties quickly. Immediately, really.

Why was she shaken and … she wasn’t entirely sure what she was experiencing. It might have been because she knew him on a more personal level than the others she’d chosen as bedmates. But all she could be certain of was the experience had been unlike anything she’d known.

Why did it make her weepy? If she’d been alone, she would have curled up in bed and cried this inexplicable feeling away.

She wasn’t being rational, or smart. The sex had been very, very good. He’d enjoyed it, too. She liked his company, and maybe that was part of the worry. But she was so
damned
tired of the worry.

“Just something I do,” she murmured, and got two bottles of cold water from the refrigerator.

She gnawed on it all the way back upstairs, where Brooks sat propped up in her bed, watching her.

“I don’t know how to behave.” She blurted it out—there!—and handed him a bottle of water.

“Is there some standard you’re reaching for?”

“Normal.”

“Normal.” He nodded, twisted off the cap, took a couple deep gulps. “Okay, I can help with that. Get back in bed.”

“I’d like to have sex with you again, but—”

“Do you want me to show you normal?”

“Yes.”

“Then get back in bed.”

“All right.”

She laid down beside him, tried not to stiffen when he pulled her to him. But instead of initiating sex, he tucked her in so her head rested on his shoulder and her body curled toward his.

“This is pretty normal, according to my standards. Or would be if you’d relax.”

“It’s nice.” She read books, she watched movies. She knew this sort of arrangement took place. But she’d never tried it before. Never wanted to. “It’s comfortable, and your body’s warm.”

“After the heat we generated, I don’t think I’ll cool off until I’m dead a week.”

“That’s a joke, and a compliment.” She tipped her head up to look at him, smiled. “So, ha, ha, thank you.”

“There you go, being funny again.” Taking her hand, he laid it on his heart. “And when I’m too weak to laugh. You turned me inside out, Abigail. That’s another compliment,” he added, when she didn’t respond.

“I need to think of one for you.”

“Well, if you’ve got to think about it.”

“I didn’t mean—” She looked up again, stricken, then caught that gleam in his eyes. “You were teasing me.”

“See, this is the part, on my scale of normal, where we tell each other how amazing we were. You especially tell me.”

“Because a man’s ego is often correlated with his sexual prowess.”

“That’s one way of putting it. Things like you saw God or the earth moved are clichés for a reason.”

“The earth is in constant motion, so it’s not a good compliment. A better one would be the earth stopped moving, even though that would be impossible, and a disaster if it were possible.”

“I’ll still take it as a compliment.”

His hand stroked up and down her back, the way she sometimes stroked Bert. No wonder the dog loved it. Her heartbeat slowed to the rhythm, and everything inside her uncoiled.

Normal, she thought, was as lovely as she’d always imagined.

“Tell me one thing,” he said. “Just one thing about you. It doesn’t have to be important,” he added when she tensed. “It doesn’t have to be a secret. Just anything. It could be your favorite color.”

“I don’t have one, because there are too many. Unless you mean primary colors.”

“Okay, color’s too complicated. When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up? I’ll go first. I wanted to be Wolverine.”

“You wanted to be a wolverine? That’s very strange.”

“Not
a
wolverine. Wolverine—X-Men.”

“Oh. I know who that is. The mutant superhero from the graphic novels and movies.”

“That’s the one.”

“But how could you be him when he already existed and his existence is fictional?”

“I was ten, Abigail.”

“Oh.”

“How about you?”

“I was supposed to be a doctor.”

“Supposed to be?” He waited a moment. “You didn’t want to be a doctor.”

“No.”

“Then you didn’t answer the question. What did you want to be?”

“I was supposed to be a doctor, and thought I’d have to be, so when I was ten, I didn’t think about being anything else. It’s not a good answer. Yours was better.”

“It’s not a competition. Anyway, you can be Storm. She’s hot.”

“Halle Berry’s character from the movies. She’s very beautiful. She controls the weather. But Wolverine doesn’t have sex with her. He has feelings for Jane, the doctor, and she in turn is torn between her feelings for Cyclops and Wolverine.”

“You know your X-Men relationship dynamics.”

“I saw the movie.”

“How many times?”

“Once, several years ago. It was interesting that Wolverine doesn’t remember his past, and his reluctant protective instincts for the girl Rogue added dimension. He’s a good character for a young boy to emulate. The writers seeded a difficult field for Rogue, as her mutation makes it impossible for her to safely touch another person, skin to skin. The scene with her boyfriend in the beginning was very sad.”

“You remember a lot of the details for seeing it once.”

“I have an eidetic memory. I sometimes read books or watch movies a second or third time, but not because I don’t remember them.”

He shifted to look down at her. “There, you told me something. So you keep everything stored up here.” He tapped her temple. “Why isn’t your head a lot bigger?”

She laughed, then stopped, uncertain. “That was a joke?”

“Yeah.” He brushed the hair away from her cheek, touched his lips there. “Have you ever made pancakes?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because you’d remember how to make them.”

“You’re hungry? You want pancakes?”

“In the morning.” He glided his hands up her body, in, grazing her nipples with his thumbs.

“You want to stay here, sleep here, tonight?”

“How else am I going to get those pancakes you’re making me?”

“I don’t sleep with people. I’ve never slept with a man overnight.”

His hands hesitated for a fraction of a second, then continued their glide. “Then you don’t know if you snore.”

“I don’t snore!”

“I’ll let you know.”

There were so many reasons why she couldn’t—shouldn’t—allow it. But he was kissing her again, touching her again, stirring her again.

She’d tell him no. After.

S
HE WOKE JUST BEFORE DAWN
, lay very still. She could hear him breathing—slow, steady. A different, softer sound than Bert. Bert did snore. A little.

She’d fallen asleep, actually fallen to sleep, after they’d had sex a second time. She hadn’t told him to go, and she’d intended to. She hadn’t made her last check of the house and the monitors. She hadn’t put her weapon on the nightstand beside her.

She’d just gotten into that comfortable, normal position, and somehow slipped into sleep while he talked to her.

Not only rude, she decided, but frightening. How could she have let her guard down so completely with him? With anyone?

What did she do now? She had a routine, and one that didn’t include an overnight guest.

She had to let Bert out, feed him, check the monitors, her business e-mail and texts.

What did she do now?

She supposed she’d make pancakes.

When she eased out of bed, the dog’s breathing changed. She saw his eyes open in the half-light, and his tail give its customary morning thump.

She whispered the command for outside in German as she retrieved her robe and Bert stretched. Together, they padded quietly out of the room and downstairs.

When the door closed, Brooks opened his eyes, smiled. He should’ve figured her for an early riser. Himself, he wouldn’t have minded another hour, but considering the big picture, he could push himself out of bed.

And maybe he could talk her back into it once she’d let the dog out to do his morning thing. He rolled out, headed for the bathroom. On cue, the minute he emptied his bladder, he thought about coffee. Then he rubbed his tongue over his teeth.

He didn’t feel right about poking around to see if she had a spare toothbrush, but he couldn’t see the harm in digging out a squirt of toothpaste.

He opened the drawer of the little vanity, saw the neatly rolled tube of Crest, and her Sig.

Who the hell kept a semiauto in the drawer with the dental floss and toothpaste? A fully loaded one, he noted, when he checked.

She’d told him one thing the night before, he reminded himself. He’d just have to persuade her to tell him more.

He scrubbed Crest over his teeth with his finger, then went back in for his pants. When he got downstairs he smelled fresh coffee, heard the mutter of the morning news.

She stood at the counter, stirring what he hoped was pancake batter in a dark blue bowl.

“Morning.”

“Good morning. I made coffee.”

“I smelled it in my sleep. You don’t snore.”

“I told you I—” She broke off when his lips met hers.

“Just verifying,” he said, as he picked up one of the mugs she’d set out. “I borrowed a squirt of toothpaste.” He poured his coffee, and hers, watched her gaze lift to his. “Do you want to tell me why you have a Sig in your toothpaste drawer?”

“No. I have a license.”

“I know, I checked. You have several licenses. Got sugar? Oh, yeah, right here.” He dipped the spoon she’d put beside the mug in the sugar bowl, added two generous servings. “I could keep checking, this and that and the other. I’m good at digging. But I won’t. I won’t do any more checking unless I tell you so first.”

“You won’t check as long as I have sex with you.”

His eyes burned green with hints of molten gold as he lowered the mug. “Don’t insult both of us. I won’t check because I won’t go behind your back, because we’re—whatever we are at this point. I’d like to sleep
with you again, but that’s not a condition. I want to keep seeing you because we enjoy each other, in and out of bed. Is that accurate?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like to lie. Not that I haven’t and won’t in the line. But outside the job, I don’t lie. I won’t lie to you, Abigail, and checking on you without you knowing seems like kin to a lie.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“That’s up to you. All I can do is tell you. This is damn good coffee, and not just because I didn’t have to make it myself. Pancakes?”

“Yes.”

“Now you look even prettier than you did ten seconds ago. Am I going to find another gun when I get out dishes and such to set the table?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the most interesting woman of my acquaintance.” He opened the cupboard where he’d seen her take out plates for pizza.

“I thought you’d just stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Once we had sex, I thought you’d stop wanting to be here, stop wondering.”

He opened the drawer for flatware, noted the Glock. “You might have forgotten, but the earth stopped moving.” He set out the flatware as she ladled batter onto her griddle. “It’s not just sex, Abigail. It’d be easier if it were. But there’s … something. I don’t know what the hell it is yet, but there’s something. So, we ride it out, see what happens.”

“I don’t know how to
do
that. I told you.”

He picked up his coffee again, stepped over to kiss her on the cheek. “It looks to me like you’re doing it just fine. Where’s the syrup?”

W
AKING UP WITH
B
ROOKS, MAKING BREAKFAST, SIMPLY DEAL
ing with the jolt in her routine, threw Abigail off schedule. He’d taken his time with breakfast. He always seemed to have something to talk about, and keeping up jumbled her thoughts out of order. By the time he’d left, she was more than an hour behind on her plans for the day, not to mention the time she’d lost the night before.