by Gina Wilkins
“Stop being so prickly, Sanders. It isn’t pity. It’s just commiseration. That’s allowed between friends, isn’t it?”
“Friends?” she repeated thoughtfully, trying to focus on his face through the dim, watery light coming in through the window curtains. “Since when are we friends?”
“I don’t know,” he murmured, moving his fingers back to her cheek. “But it seems to have happened somehow. You have any objections?”
“Not to being friends,” she answered cautiously.
His head was very close to hers now—so close she could feel his warm breath caressing her right cheek as softly as his fingers stroked her left. “What if we became more than friends?” he asked, very quietly. “Would you have any objections to that?”
“I—” She had to stop to clear her throat. “I think that would be a mistake.”
He toyed with her left earlobe, tracing it with one fingertip. “Do you?”
“Yes,” she whispered, then said it again, more firmly. “Yes. Definitely.”
“Why?”
“I’m lousy with relationships. Every time I’ve tried it, something went wrong. Really wrong,” she emphasized, to make sure he got her point. “You and I have several strikes against us already. Let’s not get completely carried away with this assignment and take a chance on turning it into a bigger disaster than the last one.”
“What are the strikes against us?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.
She couldn’t believe he didn’t already know. Maybe he just wanted confirmation of what he already suspected. “We’re cops, for one thing. Cops have a history of bad relationships. You should already know that,” she added, remembering that he’d been living with someone when she’d met him. One of their co-workers had mentioned it right after Dallas and Sam had been introduced on her first day in his precinct. She’d immediately stifled any initial attraction she might have felt for the sandy-haired, hazel-eyed detective; she had very strict rules about “trespassing.”
By the time she’d learned that Sam and his former roommate had gone separate ways, she had pushed that early attraction firmly aside. Permanently, she’d thought. Obviously, she’d been mistaken.
“Granted, cops have some problems with relationships,” Sam conceded. “Usually because the other person doesn’t understand what it’s like being a cop. What else?”
“We don’t get along. You’re always grouchy, and I like to laugh. You always try to tell me what to do—I don’t like taking orders from anyone, especially my partner.”
“I’m aware that I tend to be bossy. I’ve been working on that with you, or haven’t you noticed? As for my personality, I don’t think I’m any grouchier than you are. You just see it more with me than with yourself.”
“Bull.”
“And who was it attacking whom earlier this evening?” he asked politely.
She flushed. “That doesn’t count. I’ve already said I wasn’t myself then.”
“Guess I just bring out the worst in you.”
“Exactly,” she said, feeling as though another point had just been made to support her argument.
“Okay, so I’m a grouchy, bossy cop. Anything else about me you don’t like? You think I’m ugly? Stupid, maybe?”
She frowned. “Of course, I don’t think you’re ugly. And you aren’t stupid. You’re one hell of a good cop—when you aren’t busy trying to do my job for me. But—”
“I don’t think you’re ugly, either,” Sam interrupted, nuzzling her cheek with his nose. “In fact,” he added, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth, “I think you’re gorgeous. I always have. It just took me a while to realize that I like the rest of you almost as much as that great bod of yours.”
Sam was calling her gorgeous? If she weren’t so damned flattered, she would probably be suspicious of his motives. He’d never given her flowery compliments before, never touched her the way he was touching her now, sending little surges of electricity rippling through her. It was almost enough to make her wonder what he was really after.
And then she remembered what else he’d claimed. “You don’t like me, Perry,” she stated automatically. “You think I’m a pain in the butt.”
“Well, yes,” he agreed. “But I like you, anyway. Funny, huh?”
“I don’t—”
Her words were smothered by his kiss.
It was a long time before he lifted his head—at least, as far as he could lift it with Dallas clinging like a tightly knotted tie around his neck. “Oh, yeah, Sanders,” he murmured, gathering her closer. “I like you.”
He kissed her again. And then again. And before long, it was hard to tell who was kissing whom, whose arms were more hungry, whose movements more urgent.
Dallas’s nightshirt tangled around her waist, baring her thighs to Sam’s seeking hands. His chest was warm and sleek beneath her palms, his legs rough and hard as they tangled with hers. And then her nightshirt and her panties were on the floor, and Sam’s mouth moved against her breasts, his fingers wandering into the thatch of brown hair between her legs. Dallas arched into him, gasping her pleasure—and her bemusement.
Again and again he kissed her—her breasts, her mouth, her neck, her stomach. And then he moved lower.
Her fingers knotted in his shaggy hair, Dallas tried to tell herself that she could bring an end to this at any time. Sam hadn’t even removed his shorts yet. All she had to do was tell him to stop.
But she didn’t want him to stop.
Maybe the assignment really had warped her brain. Maybe she’d spent too many nights sleeping in the same bed with Sam. Or maybe she was finally giving in to an attraction she’d been fighting for a very long time. But she didn’t want him to stop.
She tugged at his hair, pulling him into her arms. And then she kissed him in a way that let him know exactly what she wanted. Sam murmured his approval into her mouth.
She reached for the waistband of his gym shorts and pushed them downward.
“Dallas,” Sam groaned, his body already straining to join with hers. “I wasn’t prepared for this. I can’t protect you.”
“I take care of my own protection, Perry,” Dallas whispered, wrapping her legs around his hips. “And I want this. I want you.”
“I want you, too. More than I think I’ve ever wanted before,” he admitted, sliding his fingers into her tumbled hair.
“Then what are you waiting for?” she asked him softly.
He smiled against her mouth. And then he waited no longer.
* * *
HER BODY HEAVY WITH repletion, Dallas stirred against Sam’s shoulder. He lay sprawled beneath her, his breathing not quite steady, his heart still racing beneath her cheek. Intimately tangled with hers, his body glistened with a fine sheen of perspiration, and his hair was damp around his neck when she touched it with her fingertips.
It was nice to know that he’d found as much satisfaction as she had with their lovemaking, she thought contentedly.
Her eyelids were growing heavy. The sounds outside the bedroom began to fade as she drifted toward unconsciousness. But there was one more thing she wanted to say before she fell asleep. “Perry?”
“Hmm?” His own voice was slurred, sleepy.
“I like you, too.”
He hugged her roughly against him, and this time there was a smile in his voice when he said, “Go to sleep, Sanders.”
She smiled against his throat and decided that just this once, she’d do as he suggested without argument.
* * *
SAM WAS WATCHING DALLAS sleep again. He lay on his side, facing her, his gaze focused unblinkingly on her sweetly relaxed face. He knew she wouldn’t like it that he was staring at her at such a vulnerable, unguarded moment, but he couldn’t seem to look away.
He had absolutely no idea how to handle this new development between them. Making love with her had been— Well, it had been incredible. Spectacular. Staggering. As a matter of fact, he would like very much to do it again.
Soon. Repeatedly. But was that all there was between them? Sexual chemistry? And if so, how come it hadn’t hit him before? Why had he only fully realized it after he’d become aware of all the other things he admired about her?
Maybe there was more to it than sex. And wasn’t that a scary thought?
She stirred against the pillow, her fine brown hair tangling softly around her face. He wanted to reach out and smooth it back, but was afraid he’d wake her if he did. She needed her rest.
He didn’t blame her for being bored and restless during the past week. As skilled as she was in the kitchen, Dallas wasn’t the type to content herself for long with repetitive domestic routines. She thrived on action, pressure, even a hint of danger. Dallas loved her job in a way that Sam could only envy. If he’d ever really felt that way about his career, the enthusiasm had burned out years ago. He hadn’t felt particularly enthusiastic about anything for a long time—until last night. Making love with Dallas Sanders had made him feel more intensely alive, more passionately aware, than he’d felt in years.
Now he found himself already dreading the inevitable return to the dull, gray, smothering monotony of life without her. Because something told him that the end of this assignment would also mark the end of whatever tentative relationship had been formed between him and his impulsive, utterly dedicated partner.
She stirred again, yawned, then blinked sleepily a couple of times. Her gaze met his and suddenly focused. Sam could almost watch the awareness returning to her in stages as she realized that he was lying beside her, watching her, and that she wasn’t wearing anything. And then her eyes opened wide, and he knew she’d remembered exactly what had happened between them last night.
How would she react? Would she withdraw in panic? Turn her confusion into anger at him? Brush it off as “just one of those things”?
He hadn’t expected her to smile.
“Good morning,” she murmured.
“Good morning.” He noticed how soft and inviting her unpainted mouth looked first thing in the morning.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked politely.
“Yes. You?”
“Mmm. Very.” She stretched lazily and the sheet slid down to expose the upper curves of her small, perfect breasts. Sam felt his heart do a slow somersault in his chest.
And then she smiled again. “I haven’t slept that well in a very long time,” she assured him.
He couldn’t resist reaching out to touch her. He restricted himself to brushing back that lock of hair that had been tempting him all morning. “Neither have I.”
“Are you hungry? I was thinking of making waffles for breakfast.”
Waffles were very far down on his list of priorities just then. He looked again at her smile, threw caution to the wind and reached for her.
“Maybe we could talk about breakfast later,” he whispered, his mouth hovering a breath above hers.
Dallas wound her arms around his neck. “Sounds good to me,” she agreed with flattering eagerness.
7
THAT WEEKEND, FOR THE first time, he found himself almost wanting to believe the fantasy he was living.
He and Dallas spent most of Saturday in the bedroom. They made love—repeatedly. They talked, they raided the kitchen for snacks, which they fed each other in bed. They laughed. He noticed at one point that Dallas was looking at him strangely, though she’d been giggling only moments before. “What is it?” he asked, trailing a lazy hand down her firm, bare thigh.
“You’re laughing,” she said, sounding bemused.
“Yeah, well, you’re pretty funny, Sanders.”
“You don’t laugh very often. Except for the first time you saw me in the pregnancy harness, I don’t think I’d ever really heard you laugh before.”
His smile changed to a quick frown. “Sure you have.”
She shook her head. “I’ve heard you chuckle. I’ve seen you smile—very rarely. But I’m not sure you’ve ever really laughed out loud around me before last week.”
She was making him self-conscious. He shrugged.
“You’re a very serious guy, aren’t you, Perry? Aren’t you happy?” she asked lightly. He sensed that she was only half teasing.
His head propped on one hand, he touched her face with the fingertips of his other hand. “I’m happy right now,” he said quietly. And realized, to his surprise, that he meant it.
She smiled and nestled her cheek into his palm. “That’s nice,” she murmured, her lips moving against his caressing thumb.
“Mmm. Nice,” he agreed, his voice growing husky. His body stirring. Again. “Very nice,” he whispered, and replaced his thumb with his mouth.
She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down to her.
* * *
THEY TALKED ABOUT MOVIES. Sports. Mutual friends. And then Dallas wanted to know what kind of music Sam listened to.
“Classic rock, usually. Why?”
“Just curious,” she murmured around a bite of homemade brownie, part of the batch she’d made while struggling to entertain herself Friday afternoon. “I’d have a hard time sleeping with someone who regularly listened to Roger Whittaker,” she added after swallowing.
Sam smiled and brushed chocolate crumbs off his bare stomach. “A music snob, Sanders?”
“Yep,” she admitted unabashedly. “And, by the way, if you don’t like Foreigner, then I’m afraid it’s over between us. I have to set standards, you know.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing I like Foreigner, isn’t it?”
She made a great show of sighing in relief and wiping her brow. “Made it past the first hurdle. So, how do you feel about science fiction?”
He really liked science fiction, he assured her—but he had to confess to a slight preference for tightly written mystery novels. She graciously allowed him that eccentricity.
“What else do you like to do, Dallas? Besides read sci-fi.”
She shrugged. “I work,” she said simply.
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much. Who has time for anything else?”
She didn’t sound as though she were really complaining. Sam knew it was because Dallas truly loved her work. Again, he felt that uncomfortable ripple of envy that he didn’t—couldn’t—feel the same way about their mutual career. It was a job to him. A way to pay the bills. That was all it had ever been. He sensed that, for Dallas, it had always been much more.
They worked together to prepare dinner Saturday evening. Dallas broiled two inexpensive steaks, promising that her special marinade would make them taste like the finest cuts of beef. Sam made a salad and prepared a dressing from a recipe he solemnly swore had been passed down for eleven generations in his family, to be revealed to outsiders only at the risk of great personal injury.
“Eleven generations, hmm?” Dallas asked skeptically, trying to see around him to watch what he was adding to the bowl.
“Eleven,” he repeated, blocking her view with his broad shoulders.
“And only your relatives know the recipe?”
“It has never been divulged to anyone outside the Perry family.”
“What about people who marry into the Perry family?”
“They are given the secret on their wedding nights.”
“And if they decide to divorce the Perry they married in order to receive the secret?”
“Then they have to be killed,” Sam assured her gravely. “There are very few divorces in my family.”
“You’ll tell Junior, won’t you?” she asked, patting her flat stomach beneath the oversize white T-shirt that was all she wore at that moment. The shirt belonged to Sam. He liked the way it looked on her much better than on him, he thought rather dreamily.
“Sam?”
“Mmm?”
“You will tell Junior the secret recipe, won’t you?” she prodded, smiling at their silliness. “After all, he is your child.”
“I’ll tell him,” Sam promised. “The usual method—a secret ceremony
for all the adult males in the family, to be held at midnight on his twenty-first birthday.”
“Only adult males? Why, you sexist pig. What if Junior’s a girl, hmm?”
Sam shook his head. “Bob isn’t a girl,” he announced flatly.
“We are not naming this child Bob,” Dallas informed him.
He sighed noisily. “I don’t understand this antipathy you have toward the name Bob. It’s really a great name, Sanders.”
“I know. Short, simple, easy to spell.”
“Yeah. Frontward and backward. What more could you ask?”
“Creativity? Imagination?”
He shook his head again. “People with creative and imaginative names usually end up getting teased. No one makes fun of good, solid names like Bob.”
“Or Sam, I suppose.”
“Right.”
She snorted. “You’ve got no imagination at all, Perry.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he murmured, glancing at her over his shoulder. “I’m imagining a couple of interesting things I’d like to do with you.”
She widened her eyes. “Something we haven’t already tried?”
“Honey, we haven’t even gotten good and started.”
“Oh, my.” She fanned herself rapidly with one hand. “I’m getting all flustered. Um—just how hungry are you, anyway?”
He laughed and turned back to his salad. “You can just wait until after dinner, Sanders. A man needs his strength for the activities I have in mind.”
“Why don’t I whip you up a liver milk shake to go with that? Some oysters, maybe?”
Sam realized that he was laughing again.
Damn, it felt good.
* * *
THEY PLAYED CARDS AFTER dinner. It turned out that they shared a mutual passion for gin rummy—and a mutual competitiveness that turned the simple game into a grimly serious contest. Neither of them liked to lose. They diplomatically decided to end play at a point when the scores were tied.
Sam watched the evening news before turning in, admitting that he wanted to check the scores of that day’s professional baseball games. He had a bet riding on one of them, he confessed.