by Julie Kenner
And yet, never in her entire life had she ever responded in such a way to a man. She was soft and feminine. She never challenged a man so boldly. It just wasn’t how she operated. And yet, as she stood there in ripped panty hose, she tilted her head up, held his gaze, and waited.
His nostrils flared. In the background, the wind picked up, a truck rumbled down the street, and somewhere a dog barked. But between the two of them, there existed a crackling silence. When he spoke, his words were so low as to be more felt than heard.
“You’re not what I thought,” he said.
“Good.” She didn’t have to say the rest. They both knew he’d long since dismissed her as a bleeding-heart failure. That’s what they’d been discussing at the café. And right then and there, the memories flooded back. Their conversation in the café. Damian by her car. Poor Stevie. The attack and her . . . And what she’d done. Running. Trees. And now?
Panic surged through her body, making her heart race and her hands shake. Her fight-or-flight reflex kicked in. Given that the only person to fight was Joe, she chose flight. Swooping down, she grabbed her shoes and purse from the ground. Her keys were there, too, and within seconds she’d managed to open the door to her apartment complex and fly inside. He followed.
She didn’t want to wait for the elevator, so she took the stairs, getting winded by the first landing. He remained beside her every step of the way—even with his bad leg—and he wasn’t breathing hard at all. By the fourth floor she was gasping but determined. And her feet were freezing. She fumbled her apartment door keys, but managed to push inside. He went with her, flipping on the light as she headed straight for her bedroom.
Ingrained politeness made her throw a “Make yourself at home” invitation over her shoulder. Confusion made those words sound surly. Then she ran into her bedroom, shut the door, and burst into tears.
She was crying. Joe dropped his head against the wall and listened with horror to Micki’s big, gasping sobs. They tore at his insides. He could go in there; he didn’t think she’d locked the door. And even if she had, the flimsy catch would break open easily. But once inside, what would he do?
He went into her kitchen. It was neat and girly, just like he’d expected. Flowery canisters of coffee and tea on the counter right next to a porcelain gingerbread house for cookies—empty. In her refrigerator, she had orange juice, yogurt, and tofu burgers. Plus all the mixing for a first-class salad. Yippee.
But she was still a woman, and so he looked in the freezer for her comfort food. Score! Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia, frozen cookies, frozen brownies—a treasure trove hidden among Lean Cuisines. He grabbed the ice cream. A quick search revealed utensils with fake crystal handles in rainbow colors. He grabbed a spoon and headed for the bedroom.
He knocked. “Micki?” No answer. “Micki, I’m coming in. And I’ve brought ice cream.”
He opened the door and peered inside. She was curled up on the bed, her knees to her chest, and she’d buried her head in her pillow. Her blond hair curled every which way, easily obscuring her face, but her legs were exposed all the way to her hips.
God, she was gorgeous. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking that. There were plenty of mysteries surrounding this woman and he had no wish to get distracted by her body. But what a soft and beautiful body it was. Petite. Shapely. Like a porcelain doll, only alive and strong. He’d never have guessed that she could kick the crap out of gangsters. Who knew there was such power in those legs? That she wore a thong made his dick thicken with interest, and . . . and this was way out of line. In Siberia, out of line.
“Come on, Micki. We’ve got to talk. You’ve got to give a statement. And the ice cream is starting to melt all over your floor.” The last part was a lie; he’d just taken it out of the freezer. But no woman could stand to see ice cream go to waste. Certainly not one this neat.
She took a deep breath. He didn’t hear it, but watched her back lift and lower in the shadows.
He reached over and turned on the bedside lamp, then blinked as the room was abruptly thrown into rich forest greens and golds. The lamp shade was a remarkable stained-glass forest, with a golden pathway that wound around the shade. Beneath the lamp was a circle of clear light that shone directly on Micki’s face as she emerged from her pillow. On the walls, though, was the projected forest scene. The creamy white was transformed into something magical.
“Wow, that’s some lamp,” he said, as she pushed her hair out of her eyes and reached for the ice cream.
“Ann Arbor art fair,” she murmured. “Mom and I go every year.” She took the spoon from his hand, then looked down at the pint container. “Bowl?”
“Hmm?” He’d been considering the smooth curve of her bra. No lace, just smooth silk cupping golden skin as revealed by her undone blouse.
“Never mind,” she said, and popped off the top. She carefully set the lid down on her bedside table, then dug straight into the container. “And quit looking at my boobs. You can’t see anything.”
“I’m seeing more than I usually do.”
Without looking up, she tugged sharply on the bottom of her blouse. The edges immediately straightened, covering the view. “Thank you for the ice cream,” she said. “Now go away. I’ve had a hard day.”
“No.”
She shot him a glare. “I’ll give you a statement tomorrow. I promise.”
“No.”
Her glare turned defiant as she took a big bite of ice cream. When she’d finally swallowed, she huffed. “I don’t have your answers today. Sorry, but I don’t. Try again tomorrow.”
This time he didn’t bother saying no; he just sat down on her bed and looked at her. Her skin was still blotchy from crying, her lips were swollen as if she’d been biting them to hold back her sobs, and her eyes were red and ugly. All in all, she was not a woman who looked beautiful when she cried, but still, his insides melted.
“I don’t want to push you, Micki. Honest, I don’t, but I need some answers.” He folded his arms across his chest and tried to remember he was a tough cop. “How did you get your martial arts skills, and why are you hiding them?”
She blinked at him and didn’t answer. He thought she was about to for a moment, but then she took in another big bite of ice cream.
“Are you undercover? A narc?”
Her eyes widened, and she slowly shook her head.
“It’s okay, you know. I’m a cop. Professional courtesy and all. I just wish your department had told my department.” He paused. “You’re really good, you know. I would never have made you as anything but a glass-tower liberal.”
She stiffened, squaring her shoulders and glaring at him. Finally, she pulled the spoon out of her mouth and whispered, “I am.”
He leaned forward to hear better. This was the only explanation, and yet it didn’t sit right. She just didn’t feel like a cop—narc, fed, or otherwise. “You are,” he said anyway, his voice flat.
She nodded and her voice gained strength. “I am a . . . a glass-tower liberal. Bleeding heart and all.”
“And a narc.”
She shook her head.
“Fed?”
Again, the slow denial.
“How did you kick those kids’ asses? Micki, you spun in the air and backflipped and round house kicked.”
“No, I didn’t,” she said in a tiny, tiny voice.
“Yes, Micki, you did.”
She buried her spoon in the ice cream and didn’t answer. He reached out to grab her hand before she could shove another bite into her mouth.
“Micki, talk to me. I’m a good guy, remember?”
She swallowed and raised her gaze to look at him through the shadow of her bangs. “I don’t know.”
He stiffened. “Of course I’m a good guy.”
“I don’t freaking know how I did it!” she snapped, her voice growing shriller as she continued. “I suck at athletics. I’ve never taken a martial arts class in my life. I’ve never even climbed a tree, much less run throu
gh them. And I don’t freaking ever hit a freaking child! I don’t believe in it!”
Joe stared at Micki, trying to figure her out. She certainly seemed sincere. And sincerely freaked out. But skills like this didn’t appear out of thin air. Something was up with her, and he wasn’t leaving until he figured it out.
“So, what’s the black belt in?” he asked casually. “Jujitsu? kung fu? Monkey voodoo? Come on, what’s the style called?”
She glared at him, then twisted her spoon in the ice cream. “It’s okay,” she said after taking another bite. “I wouldn’t believe me, either.” She swallowed, her gaze on the nearly empty pint. “Maybe it was adrenaline. I mean, I’ve never been attacked by a gang before.”
To his annoyance, it didn’t sound like she believed herself. He tried a different angle. “It’s not unfeminine or anything. You’re really, really good. In fact, it’s pretty sexy even, knowing you could probably kick my ass if you wanted to.”
She looked up at him, her nose crinkling in horror. “God, you’re hitting on me because I have freaky kung fu powers! What the hell is wrong with just me?”
He stiffened at the slight. Not because he was insulted—much—but because the soft approach wasn’t getting him anywhere. Maybe she was the kind of woman who needed to be insulted to get a spark. “What, you too hoity-toity to like a cop?”
She blinked, startled enough to halt with her spoon halfway to her mouth. “What? No!”
“But I insulted you by thinking a woman black belt is hot?”
“I never said that! You’re twisting my words—”
“You’re the one who’s twisted, lady. I’m here trying to help, getting you ice cream, bringing your car home. Now you’re too good for me?”
“Stop it! Just stop it!” She barely missed kicking him as she shot out of bed. “You’re being awful!”
Progress. She was on her feet now, stomping to the kitchen. The little lost girl was gone beneath a surge of fury. He followed her, still pushing. “What? Don’t you like it that I think you’re sexy as hell? That I’ve got a boner the size of Detroit for you, right now? Does that upset you?”
She whirled around and nearly upended a vase of flowers on the breakfast bar that separated her kitchen from her living room. “No, it doesn’t upset me!” she bellowed. “A few months ago, I would have been thrilled to death if you paid any attention to me at all. Anything but pity, that is.”
He spread his arms wide. “Well, here I am. Hot to trot for you. Come and get me, girly-girl. This isn’t pity.”
“I am not a girly-girl!” she snapped, her eyes tearing up. She threw her empty pint carton in the garbage and then hurled the spoon into the sink. Both missed by a mile. The spoon clattered against the wall, leaving an ice-cream smear on the pale yellow. “Just stop it!” she said again. “You’re being horrible.”
He crowded tight to her shoulder, close enough to smell her sweat as it mixed with the scent of some very expensive shampoo—vanilla and gardenia—and his arousal really did get the size of Detroit.
“You’re a liar,” he said. “A liar and a fraud, hiding behind tight skirts and expensive shampoo. What kind of car do you really drive? No one actually drives a yellow Beetle,” he scoffed. He grabbed her elbow and whipped her around. “Who are you really?”
She jerked her arm back, to no effect. His grip held tight. Her face twisted into a grimace as she banged her free hand against his chest. “Let me go!”
In terms of a punch, hers had the force of a two-year-old. She had no leverage. Even her hips were at the wrong angle, so that her feet got tangled up beneath her. He began slowly backing her up against the breakfast bar.
“You want me to let go? Make me.” He pushed his groin hard against her.
“Stop it!” she gasped. “Just stop it!” Her head was almost level with the too-perky daisies on the counter. She tried to punch him again, but he was relentless.
This had started out as a game to make her reveal her fighting skills, but with his body pressed tight against her soft curves, his mind temporarily shorted out. A primal need to own this woman flared inside him, and he quickly trapped her against the counter, his hips thrust against her belly. His head dropped to her neck, and he inhaled deeply, loving the musky scent there. He heard her breath catch, and felt her shudder against him. He rubbed his cheek against hers, glorying at the soft slide of her skin.
“Stop,” she whispered, anguish in her tone.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he said. “Unless you stop me. I’m going to kiss you right now.” He ground his hips forward again, the plea sure burning through his blood and pushing him farther.
He took her mouth. He thrust his tongue inside and touched every part of her. His hands slid down her sides. She was slender, but wow, her curves were perfect. Her breasts fit his hands, and he squeezed. Her mouth had come alive, fighting with him, tasting him, touching him, but he gave her little opportunity. This wasn’t about sharing; this was about domination.
He slid his hands off her breasts to her hips. He pinned her, holding her tight as he moved against her. Geez, she was so tiny, and yet everything about her screamed woman. His woman. He wanted her naked.
He grabbed hold of her blouse. The silly white buttons had been driving him crazy all day. He ripped it open with one jerk. She gasped, and he could see her belly tremble. Better yet, he could feel it where he still ground into her. Hell, he was pressed so deep against her, he knew every ripple of her abdominal muscles.
“Oh . . .” she moaned. Or maybe it was “no.” It was hard to hear over the roar of his blood.
“Stop me,” he said. “Stop me now.”
She pushed at his chest. Her tiny hands planted on his chest and shoved. She had leverage, she had power, but not enough. Not nearly enough to keep him from popping the clasp of her bra from behind and burying his face in her glorious breasts.
Why wasn’t she defending herself? One karate chop to the back of his neck and he’d be too dizzy to stand. One slam to his instep and he’d be walking on his knees. Her hands were free. She could grab his ears and pull him right off her. Instead, she just pushed ineffectively at his shoulders while he took a ripe nipple into his mouth.
It was tight and firm, and he suckled until she gasped. Then he rolled his tongue around it before nipping lightly. She had stopped pushing at his chest. She had stopped fighting altogether, and that more than anything filtered through his mind. Could she want this? Could she really want to have sex with him?
His body screamed yes! But his mind couldn’t handle the conflicting thoughts. He’d expected her to flatten him five minutes ago. He’d left himself wide open. Anyone who could fight like she had this afternoon could drop him in seconds.
He looked up into her face. Her lips were swollen from his kiss, her breath was coming in rapid gasps, but her eyes were wide with shock. And she was crying. There were distinct trails of moisture on her cheeks. But he was sure there was passion in her eyes. An unmistakable hunger.
“Do you want this?” he asked. Despite his noblest intentions, he couldn’t stop himself from grinding against her again. It just felt too damn good. “Micki, do you want me to keep going?”
“N-no?” A yes if he’d ever heard one.
“Stop me. Yank on my hair. Slam my instep. Put your hand through my nose.”
She remained absolutely still.
“Need me to show you how?” he offered.
She nodded.
He slowly lifted her arm until the palm of her hand was level with his face. “Now jerk it across your chest. You’ll break my nose.”
“But I don’t want to break your nose.”
Green light! Green light! screamed his dick. He gritted his teeth. He had to stand up. He had to get some distance. Taking a deep breath, he began to maneuver away from her. His groin did one last glorious push into her as he sought new balance.
Bam! Her palm hit his cheek, and his head snapped back. The blow wasn’t hard enough to throw hi
m off her, but his vision blurred and his eyes watered. Thankfully, she’d hit his cheekbone, not his nose, or he’d be bleeding all over her floor.
“I was stepping back!” he groused.
“You were not!” she snapped. Then she peered at him. “Wow, you’re swelling. That really works.”
He tried to glare at her, but he couldn’t see well enough yet. Meanwhile, facts began lining up in his brain. Except for the bizarre fight this afternoon, she’d acted exactly to type. His inner Neanderthal noticed that her nipples were still tight, her skin flushed, and her lips had that moist, dome look. His brain noticed that she was anxious, peering at his face and muttering something about ice.
“What?” he asked.
“Back up. Let me get you some ice.”
Did she really think he had blood anywhere but in his cock? Or that he could walk upright? Apparently so, be cause she shoved at his shoulders. He spun sideways and promptly ran into her stupid daisies. The vase toppled and shattered on her linoleum floor.
“Shit!” she snapped. “This day just gets better and better.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’ll clean it up.” He needed something mundane and physical to do. Pushing around the corner, he heard the crunch of glass shards beneath his shoes. She was halfway to the freezer—presumably to get him ice—when he noticed that she was barefoot. At some point, she’d obviously stripped out of her ruined panty hose.
“Don’t move!” he snapped. “There’s glass everywhere!”
She sighed and pointed to the inch that separated the refrigerator from the counter. A broom and a Swiffer rested neatly in the crack. “Just grab me that—”
“Don’t move!” he repeated more forcefully. “I’ll get your shoes. Then I’ll sweep.” He was starting to move more easily now, though his mood had rapidly gone south. He grabbed her sensible black shoes—the kind that little girls wore—and watched as she slipped them onto her feet. Thirty seconds later, he cursed as he realized he’d been staring at her dainty feet disappear into the silly Chinese shoes. They were velvet black with a bright red Chinese character embroidered on the top, and her pretty toes with their bright pink nail polish had slipped so easily inside.