Sí, she was merely fishing. If he was fortunate, she was simply waiting for him to offer to escort her to her sister's coming wedding, as he had the others.
And if she was not?
Because there was more going on within that beautiful mind at this moment.
He could feel that too.
Perhaps she had learned of his own request for vacation. He should explain it. Except…he did not wish to lie, to this woman most of all. Having never done so before, he was loath to begin now. Unfortunately, he might well be forced to do so, if only to soothe the confusion growing within her slightly squinting gaze.
The hurt.
He shifted to avoid it—only to confront the real estate calendar some previous DEA agent had attached to the door of the refrigerator with a magnetic hook. Cristo, he did not need that damnable reminder either.
That date.
He turned back to Teresa and forced a smile, hoping to diffuse the tension brought on by his silence as he nodded to her towel. "You should dress."
A mistake.
For while the confusion in her gaze had fled, the hurt left behind sharpened to a pain so pointed it succeeding in piercing not only the heaviness between them, but him as well. Dios mío, he had done it again. He had violated their friendship.
"Teresa—"
She nodded crisply. "I will—in a minute."
Carajó.
He reached for her, determined to apologize, but she had already turned to the stove. There, she busied herself with the carton of eggs he had placed on the counter ten minutes before. He glanced away only to confront the calendar once again. Nowhere else to look, he watched as Teresa retrieved a bowl and a skillet, along with enough ham and cheese to prepare a makeshift meal. The unease within his heart grew as she ignited the gas on the front burner and cracked three eggs into the bowl, for the intimacy of her actions had begun to gnaw at him in a way that it never had before.
He crossed his arms in an attempt to quell the dread.
It did not work.
Had the opportunity to work together again arrived but two months earlier, he would have welcomed the occasion, as well as this sham of a marriage, for he enjoyed working alongside this woman most of all. But too much had changed for him to do so now. It did not help that he knew the cause.
Nor that it was of his own making.
Indeed, the knowledge only served to worsen the ache.
The silence between them settled firmly as she continued to work, growing awkward and thick until it filled the tiny kitchen. She felt it, too. This, he could see in the tension of her slender shoulders as she poured the beaten eggs into the skillet, then reached up to draw a glass from the cupboard. She filled the glass with milk and left it on the counter, passing within inches to return the carton to the refrigerator.
Etiquette, if not their friendship, demanded he open the door.
Instead, he retreated. Quickly.
It was bad enough that he had violated the privacy of her bath twenty minutes earlier. He did not need to look upon that tantalizing towel to remind himself of what lay beneath. Not if he chose to keep what remained of his sanity.
No, the sparse bubbles that had trailed down her flesh had not revealed all, but they had certainly revealed enough.
Why did she not go back to the bedroom and change into…something?
But he knew why.
Teresa trusted him. Implicitly.
She always had. Almost from the moment they met at the DEA academy six years before. And why not? Other men might gawk at her stunning beauty, but he did not.
It was not that he failed to see it.
His eyes functioned as well as any man's. He saw the dark auburn waves that tumbled to her waist when loosened as surely as the next. Just as he saw those soft green eyes, smooth cheeks and gently arching brows. Indeed, he knew that pert nose and those bowed lips as intimately as any friend could—even knew that the tiny white scar beneath the bottom curve had been caused by the scratch of her pet cat when she was five.
Sí, he saw these things, and more. Perhaps clearer than most.
But he had learned to look beyond them.
At first because she had been engaged, and then because their friendship had withstood the trial of time and had already been cemented. Quite honestly, he had been loath to lose it. But the truth remained—he was losing it. He saw this as plainly as he could see the tension in those soft shoulders. Tension that had never been there before. At least not because of him.
Teresa was sharp. If he was not careful, if he was not able to control these feelings that had simmered deep within his heart these six years past and seal them up again, she would know—and soon.
And then what?
Once again, he burned the wish from his thoughts before it could flourish. She was his friend, nothing more. She could not be more.
Why then, did his mind hold fast to an image no friend should have?
That birthmark.
Until today, he had not known of its existence. The mark was small and oval, tinted an enchanting flush of pink. His thumb would cover it. And barely an inch lower, his thumb would be free to skim and flirt with yet another captivating feature. The areole that crowned her left breast—a plump, utterly perfect breast.
Dios mío, he did not need that image in his head.
He closed his eyes and forced out his breath. Slowly.
It did not help.
Just as closing his eyes had not helped him when he had first spied the mark and the lush curves beneath as Teresa had slumbered in her bath. Indeed, when he opened his eyes then, he had walked further into the room instead of out. It had taken every ounce of control he possessed to halt his stride and back firmly out to shut the door.
This time he opened his eyes cautiously, relieved to see the towel—and yet not. He drew his gaze from those smooth shoulders and settled it upon her hair. This was safe, for the mass of it was knotted securely atop her head. But when she reached up to flick on the light in the hood above the oven, he stiffened.
Her curls. She had altered them.
How he had failed to notice earlier he did not know, but he saw it now. Teresa had changed the color. Her natural deep, reddish glow had been subdued in favor of a lighter, more golden one. He sucked in his breath as she flipped the omelet one last time, then slid it from the skillet and onto the waiting plate.
Was there nothing she would not do to bring Hernández down?
The dread returned, cold and thick. It settled within him much like the silence filling the kitchen—only far heavier.
"Teresa."
She glanced over her shoulder.
"Did you change the color of your eyes last night as well?"
She did not answer, turning to the stove instead to give the burner control undue concentration as she switched off the gas.
It mattered not. He had his answer. "You know how I feel—"
She whirled about, brandishing the spatula. "You're right, I do. Damn it, Joe, we've been through this. I can handle Eddie. Hell, you've seen me handle men twice his size."
He had. But it was not the man's size that concerned him. It was the man's rotting heart. Joe sighed. "You do not understand. Eduardo Hernández is evil at his soul. I know this. I felt it." Though why she did not was beyond him.
Or perhaps she did, for her sigh mirrored his.
She crossed the kitchen to dump the spatula into the sink, then turned to lean against the edge. He changed his mind as she brought her arms to her chest and locked them beneath the towel. She was not going to listen to reason.
Again.
"What do you expect me to do—argue? I can't. Yes, Eddie's evil. But what you don’t seem to understand is that I can do something about it. And if I have to use the man's own sins against him to do it, so be it. I'll use that bastard's nasty little predilection for forcing himself on women to hell and back until I've got him exactly where I want him—in prison. Why not? It's my job."
This mi
ght well be true. But risking the ugliest of violations was not.
He opened his mouth to press the argument yet again—it was that important—but the apartment's landline phone cut him off.
His brother?
He forced his body to relax as yet another ring trilled within the kitchen. No, Miguel would not be so foolish as to dial a number that was routinely bugged by the DEA. Miguel would call or text his mobile phone.
But it was best to err on the side of caution.
As Teresa was closer, she reached the cordless receiver before him, her frosted gaze snapping to his as his hand closed over her wrist. "I haven't hooked up the recorder yet."
"Perhaps I should answer. It may be Hernández checking to see if we are truly married."
"I take it you gave him the number."
He had. Just as he had also filed the forged papers regarding their "marriage" within the San Diego courthouse records as well as other key places. Nonetheless, better she believe he was protecting their cover than risk her discovering the true source of his apprehension as the phone rang a third time.
She finally released the receiver, frowning.
He brought the portable receiver to his ear. "¿Hola?" For all his worry, it was not his brother. Nor even Hernández.
He almost wished it had been.
"Yes, she is here. A moment, please." He schooled his expression as he held the receiver out. "Agent Daniels."
She blinked.
Her confusion succeeded in returning the warmth to her gaze—as well as some measure of comfort to himself. At least she had not been expecting the call.
He turned to busy himself with the milk Teresa had poured as he attempted to ignore the familiarity with which she greeted her caller.
"Howdy, Cowboy. If you're calling to rustle a report out of me, I'm afraid I don't have one yet." A pause. "Help? From the Famous, But Incompetent?" Her soft chuckle filled the kitchen. "Gee thanks, Mr. Awesome FBI Guy, but I think I can manage to stumble through on my own."
Another pause, followed by her sigh.
"I know, Gray. Just as I know you wouldn't have asked to have me assigned to the case if you didn't think I could handle it, unlike—" Her gaze found his. "—some men."
He frowned.
Teresa ignored his frown and him, turning back to the stove to switch off the overhead light with her free hand. "Listen, Cowboy. I know you're pissed these idiots have involved your niece—" She shifted the skillet to a rear burner. "—but we're doing fine. Everything's in place. You and your brother want the case to stick, don't you?"
He did not need to catch the corner of her smile to speculate on Grayson's answer to that.
"Then trust me." Another pause, this one brief, and then her soft chuckle. "Wow, don't sound too positive on my account." She turned back to face him, that impish smile Joe knew so well curving her lips as she sought his gaze yet again. "My baritone receptionist?" Her smile spread. "That would be my baritone husband." More laughter. "For the case, Gray."
Joe could not help it; he tensed.
Carajó, here it came.
He was certain of it when her smile fled. More so when she evaded his gaze altogether and took the cordless phone and her conversation with her as she left the kitchen. He closed his eyes at the departing towel that continued to hug her curves.
She might not be able to see clearly without her glasses or contacts. But he saw her with perfect clarity. Always. Especially now. She was naked beneath that towel.
How could she speak to a man she barely knew whilst dressed so?
A man who was now asking her out.
He knew this, because he had also received a call from Agent Daniels. Indeed, before his morning coffee had even settled, Daniels had managed to query him not only about his current case, but its leading agent as well.
Daniels had been subtle, sí. But the end result had been the same: were the rumors concerning himself and his relationship with Teresa Rowan merely that?
Or was there more to it and them?
He was not proud of how close he had come to lying. Nor should he be.
A friend. He was her friend.
Was this not more than he could ever hope for, much less have? Especially now.
His gaze drifted to the calendar. To that date. He closed his eyes and drew the images to mind as he struggled yet again to convince his heart that anything more than friendship with Teresa was futile. His father. His mother.
Their vacant, glassy eyes.
The blood.
Though it was painful, he had at least succeeded in convincing himself of the foolishness of wanting more by the time Teresa returned to the kitchen.
Friendship. It was better than nothing at all.
She returned the phone to its base, then faced him. "I'm having dinner with Gray tomorrow. He'll have talked to his niece again by then. See if she's picked up on anything new at school."
He drew in his breath slowly, carefully. "You think meeting the man is wise?"
She smiled. "Relax. I know what you're thinking."
Oh, she most definitely did not.
Her smile faded when he failed to respond.
She shrugged. "It doesn't matter. We're meeting at his place. It's well out of sight of Eddie's prying eyes—and anyone else's."
Was this to make him feel better?
"Okay, I get the message. You don't approve. Why?" She folded her arms beneath that damnable towel. "Is this about Eddie Hernández—or Gray Daniels?"
He remained mute.
"The silent treatment. What a surprise." Her mouth tightened when he refused to respond to the barb. "Damn it, Joe—what is your problem? Do you honestly think I'm stupid enough to parade an FBI agent in front of our prime suspect?"
Once again, he held his tongue.
She finally sighed, pushing off from the counter to cross the kitchen and retrieve the carton of eggs left out, only to stop shy of the refrigerator. She faced him with a shrug. "Then again, why not? The idea has merit. Though granted, it would require providing Gray with his own undercover identity—for the duration of this gig, anyway. But Eddie might make a play for me sooner if he sees firsthand that I'm willing to step out on you." She turned back and opened the door to place the eggs inside.
Before he could stop himself, he had crossed the kitchen and clamped his hand about her wrist.
The frost returned, deepening the green in her eyes. "Excuse me? What do you think you're doing?"
"Teresa, please. You must listen to—"
"I have listened. Now, if you don't mind—" She wrenched her arm free and shoved the eggs into the refrigerator before slamming the door closed. "—I have case notes to review, then a twelve-hour hospital shift to get ready for. I'm sure you have preparations to make for tonight as well." She shook her head as she sighed. "Make the border run, Joe. Who knows, if you're lucky, we won't be stuck here together long enough for my meeting with Gray to become a problem."
"And if we are?"
Again, her gaze cooled. "Then perhaps we should consider adding a few ground rules to our marriage." She jerked that ice back to the stove, then the refrigerator. "You know the ones, no—"
He stiffened. "A review will not be necessary."
He remembered her rules well enough. There was to be no expectation of meals, nor of cleaning up after one another. No comments, no questions, nor the prying into of personal lives. Nor was there to be the slightest intimacy, or even the appearance of intimacy beyond what the current case required. In short, the men Teresa worked with were expected to keep in mind at all times that, despite illusions to the contrary, she was a fellow agent and a professional—not a woman.
At least not to them.
And certainly not a wife.
She nodded curtly. "Good. Then since I cooked dinner, I'll feel free to leave you with the mess." With that, she turned and departed the kitchen. Moments later, he heard the unmistakable sound of the bedroom door opening, then closing.
He flinche
d as it locked.
The vigilant guarding of personal space.
Yet another rule of Teresa's. And like all the other restrictions, one she had never felt the need to apply to him.
Until now.
3
Tess set the plastic tote containing her nursing supplies onto the hospital tray table, before rolling it toward the foot of the bed. She reached over the rail, smoothing the wisps of snowy hair from her patient's brow as she leaned closer.
"Mr. Hastings?"
Faded blue eyes opened, focused briefly, then drifted shut.
Several moments passed as she waited for Sam Hastings to respond again. When he didn't, she took his hand, now cool and slender with age, and squeezed gently.
"Mr. Hastings?"
"Tell Saint Peter I'll be with him in a minute."
Tess chuckled despite the weariness rasping through the man's voice. While the act was good, it was just that. An act. She squeezed his hand again. "Mr. Hastings, I told you last night, flattery will get you nowhere."
His eyes finally reopened, the mischief she'd come to know and love throughout the previous night's twelve-hour shift now sparkling clearly within. "And I told you, Angel, my name is Sam."
She smiled. "You did…Sam."
"That's more like it." The spurt of strength in his hands as he squeezed hers back belied his seventy-two-year-old frame, not to mention the quadruple heart bypass he'd undergone recently. "Now, what do you say you change your mind, young lady, and take me up on my irresistible offer? Let's blow this joint and head south to Tijuana for a quickie marriage."
Against her will, her smile deepened.
While Sam's offer wasn't irresistible, he certainly was.
She leaned close to whisper at his ear. "I would, Sam; I truly would. But there's that pesky little detail I mentioned."
He sighed heavily. "Ah, yes, the current husband."
"That's the one." She flat-out grinned, automatically lowering his bedrail with her free hand as she straightened. "Now, let's see if I can't flush the clog from your IV and save you another poke in this sinfully gorgeous body of yours."
Just Beyond Reach Page 4