He should check off a lot of jobs in the next week.
He switched off the lights, then went into the kitchen. The television was on, but Masiela wasn’t watching it. She’d leaned onto the sofa arm, her own arms under her head, and was sleeping, head at an awkward angle, feet tucked up beside her.
After taking a bottle of water from the refrigerator, he shut off the light over the sink, then went to stand in front of her.
“Hey.”
She didn’t stir.
“Masiela.”
No response.
Grimacing, he laid his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, Mas. Get up and I’ll help you fold out the couch.”
He gave her a shake and she jerked upright, her right hand whipping down to her waist, unholstering her pistol in one smooth move. Even while he admired her quick reflexes after so many years off the job, he stepped back, his hand raised palm out. “Whoa, whoa, Mas, come on. You shoot me in my own house, you’re gonna have to call the police and the ambulance, and people are gonna know you’re here, and Donovan’s gonna be really pissed.”
She stared at him, her expression stark, her eyes dazed for the moment it took her to come fully awake. She blinked, then lowered the gun. “Jesus, AJ. Don’t do that.”
AJ. She’d called him that when they’d first met—when he had volunteered to partner with her—but she’d decided within a day or so that it didn’t feel right. After that, like everyone else in the department, she’d called him by his last name. Except for that one night.
He backed off, and she set the gun on the end table, then shoved her hair back from her face. “Sorry.”
“Yeah. I’m going upstairs. You want help with the couch?”
“Sure.” She stood, stretching out a kink, pulling her T-shirt above the waistband of her jeans, displaying an inch or two of smooth, brown skin.
It was just a strip of her stomach. He saw more exposed skin every day in warm weather, on the joggers, the kids hanging out at the community pool, the young women shopping downtown. Hell, he’d seen more of her skin plenty of times—all the hours in the gym, all the time spent together off duty…that night, when he’d seen it all.
He forced his gaze away, forced himself to move back, to lift the coffee table and carry it to the side, near the kitchen counter. When he turned back, she had removed the seat cushions and stacked them on the table, then, together, they pulled the bed frame from the couch. It came with a creak, never-before-moved metal complaining as it shifted into new positions. The thin mattress unfolded with a flop, looking about as comfortable as the bare wood floor in the living room.
“Thanks,” Masiela said, as she shook out a sheet so the fabric floated down across the flowered ticking. “I can take it from here.”
He was happy to leave her to it. As he walked down the hall, he opened the bathroom door, switched on the light, then left the door partway open. He didn’t want her stumbling around in the dark, looking for the bathroom, not when he was even faster with a gun than she was.
In the safety of his room, he showered and shaved, then settled in bed with the bottled water and the TV on. He was still vaguely sore from Willie’s kick—and acutely aware that his privacy had been violated. No one had ever spent the night there but Cate, and that was at his invitation. No one even visited besides Cate, unless it was to help on some project—again, at his invitation.
He could have told Donovan no. Should have.
But if he had, and Masiela had returned to Texas and something had happened to her… Of all the people he knew, she was the very last one he wanted on his conscience.
The phone on the bedside table rang, with a faint echo from downstairs. He grabbed it before the ring silenced, not that he cared if it woke Masiela, but because he didn’t want her forgetting and picking it up. Though reason made him admit that what she’d said earlier was true: she wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t do anything to endanger herself.
It was Cate. He’d known it would be. If it were police business, the call would come in on his cell phone, and anyone else would wait until morning. Only Cate made a habit of calling him around bedtime on nights when she worked.
“I miss you,” she said, in place of a greeting.
“Yeah.” The best he could offer. He’d thought about her a time or two this evening, but not in the wish-she-was-here sort of way. More of a hope that she didn’t find out about Mas, and an oh yeah, Cate likes veggie pizza too realization.
“I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re one of the few men in this town who has developed beyond the moron stage.”
“I’m gonna guess you’ve had an E.R. full of stupid guys doing stupid things tonight.”
“Car surfing, skateboarding with a towrope tied to the bumper of a car, contests to see who can hold a lighted firecracker the longest…. Sheesh, if women didn’t need men to procreate, we’d let them kill themselves off.”
He snorted. “Most of you are more interested in recreating than procreating.”
“I certainly am. Especially with you.” The soft, sexy tone switched to matter-of-fact. “Too bad I’m stuck here in the hospital for the next God knows how many hours. My relief—a man—is going to be late again.”
“Yeah, too bad,” he echoed, more because it seemed appropriate than because of any genuine desire. He was sore, Masiela was downstairs, and he was suddenly feeling…odd. Suspiciously like something that might have slithered out from under a rock.
“I heard about your run-in with Willie.” Cate’s voice was light with amusement. “Unless the details were greatly exaggerated, it’s probably a good thing that I’ll be on duty most of the night.”
He scowled. His testicles had probably been the subject of gossip in more places than the hospital. Wasn’t that nice to know? “If the details included me curled up on the ground, barely able to breathe, they’re not exaggerated.”
“Poor baby. You’ll be fine in a day or two.” Another voice filtered over the phone, then she said, “Sorry, I’ve got to go. Got a patient in. Talk to you tomorrow?”
“Sure.” He hung up, shut off the lamp, then gazed at the shadows from the television flickering on the wall. He’d said enough to Masiela that she’d guessed he was thinking about getting married, and he was. It just seemed like maybe it was time, and he’d been seeing Cate for nearly a year. She was long over her divorce, and had hinted that she was ready to give marriage another shot. They got along great, they’d never fought, they had plenty in common—he liked her a lot. Why not get married? They’d be good together.
As long as she wasn’t expecting something like, oh, a husband who loved her. Because he did like her very much, but he didn’t love her. She wasn’t the most important person in his life. If she wasn’t around, he would miss her for a while, but his life wasn’t going to fall apart because she wasn’t in it.
Getting along, liking, not fighting…were those good enough reasons to get married?
Maybe for him. Probably not for Cate.
Did she think he felt the feelings but just hadn’t said the words? Had he led her on by not saying anything at all? By not running the other way when she mentioned marriage?
Too complicated a line of thought when he was feeling tired and sore and a bit reptilian. He settled more comfortably in bed, inhaled deeply, catching a faint whiff of Cate’s perfume on the pillows, then exhaled deeply and drifted to sleep.
Morning came too soon, the steady beep-beep of the alarm clock making his teeth grind before he punched the button that stopped the noise. He threw back the covers and sat up, and a dull discomfort reminded him of yesterday’s fun.
Fuzzy-headed, he brushed his teeth, then splashed water onto his face to help him wake up. He normally got up feeling pretty rested and alert, but normally didn’t include a knee to the groin, weird dreams…and a blast from the past.
Dressed in jeans and a yellow polo shirt embroidered with the CLPD logo and his name, AJ went downstairs. The bathroom door was still open, the light stil
l on. He cut through the living and dining rooms to the kitchen—not necessarily avoiding Masiela, but rather the narrow squeeze between the foot of the bed and the TV—and switched on the light over the sink. The coffeemaker stood nearby, a travel mug already in place. Quickly, quietly, he measured coffee grounds into one compartment, filtered water into another, pressed the Start button, then waited impatiently.
The sky was starting to lighten behind the house. Out front, the eastern horizon would be changing colors as the sun rose. The air would be warm, but not uncomfortably so. That would start around nine, with the temperature rising and the humidity climbing with it. By two it would be damn hot and muggy, and he would be wondering why, if he’d had to relocate from Dallas, he hadn’t gone north. Someplace along the Canadian border—or, hell, even Alaska sounded better than Georgia in June.
Except he’d rather sweat in a steambath every summer than face snow, ice or subzero temperatures in the winter.
The coffeemaker gurgled to a stop, and he pulled the cup away. He’d stirred in sweetener and two tiny tubs of cream and was about to take the first sip when a wide-awake voice came from across the room.
“Still can’t start your day without coffee, huh?”
AJ looked at the couch for the first time and saw Masiela lying on her side, the pillow folded in half beneath her head, the sheet tucked under her arms. She looked soft and mussed and incredibly beautiful. He’d thought that the first time he’d seen her—that she was incredibly beautiful, and that it was a good thing he wasn’t affected by incredible beauty, since it might interfere with his teaching her the new job.
He still wasn’t affected by beauty. He wasn’t. He was just staring because having someone else in his house was keeping him unbalanced.
Quietly he snorted. Yep, Masiela had done a good job of keeping him unbalanced over the years.
“Doesn’t smell like your usual Jamaica Blue Mountain.” She sat up, letting the sheet fall to her waist, and turned to lean against the sofa arm, knees drawn to her chest. She was wearing a tank top, black, ribbed, molding to her breasts.
What was under the sheet? He couldn’t help but wonder. Shorts? Tiny panties? Matching, of course. She’d always had a thing for matching lingerie, the skimpier, the better.
Swallowing hard, he took that first sip, dark and mildly acidic, then remembered her comment. He shook his head, not sure his voice would work, but tried it anyway. “It’s not. It’s a Salvadoran blend. Ayutepeque. The guy who owns the coffee shop in town gets it for me. You want a cup?”
She looked tempted but shook her head. “I’ve been jumpy enough the past few weeks. I don’t need any extra caffeine.”
“There’s not much here in the way of food,” he began, but she waved one hand.
“I’ve got leftover pizza. That’ll cover breakfast and lunch.”
“Make up a shopping list and I’ll pick up groceries after work. You do still cook, don’t you?”
“I do. You do still eat anything anyone sets in front of you, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
Cate joked about it. She was so lousy a cook that even her dog wouldn’t eat her efforts—but AJ did.
Thinking about Cate while looking at Masiela—or avoiding looking at her—stirred a twinge of guilt. He snapped a lid on the travel mug, then scooped up his keys from the counter. “I’ve got to go. If you need anything—”
“I’ll just dial 911.”
Though he knew she was teasing, he scowled anyway. “My cell phone number’s taped inside the cabinet door.” His mother could keep track of a hundred different paint samples and fabric swatches, but she lost phone numbers the way a dog shed hair.
Masiela gave him a halfhearted salute, then moved as if to push back the covers—his cue to get out. Fast.
Chapter 3
It was amazing how quiet an old house could be. If not for the noises Masiela was making—folding bedding, manhandling the bed frame back into the sofa—there would be utter silence. Not a board creaking, not a whisper from the central air or a hum from the refrigerator. In her condo, she always heard something: the normal sounds of the house, her neighbors fighting or making love, their kids playing, traffic moving through the complex.
Lifting her suitcase onto the sofa, she unpacked toiletries and a clean set of clothes, picked up her pistol, shoved her feet into a pair of flip-flops and headed upstairs for a shower.
Four doors lined the hallway, only one of them open. She set her things on the bathroom counter, then went back to the hall. The first door opened into a bedroom stacked haphazardly with furniture and unmarked boxes. So did the second. It was like Decker not to label anything…though it was also like him to have a pretty good idea of what was where without labels.
The last door led to his room. She hesitated, fingers wrapped around the knob. This was his private space, and a closed door definitely didn’t constitute an invitation to enter.
But he’d told her to make herself at home. And what if something happened while he was gone? Wasn’t it in her best interests to be totally familiar with her environment?
Weak excuse, she chided herself as she opened the door anyway and stepped inside.
At his last apartment in Dallas, his bedroom had had dirty white walls, mismatched furniture and a badly worn carpet that was rarely seen, thanks to the clothing and detritus scattered over it all the time. The place looked as if it belonged to a college kid with zero budget, she’d teased him, but he hadn’t cared.
That was the difference. In Dallas he hadn’t given a damn what his bedroom looked like. Now he did.
The walls were painted buff, and the furniture actually matched. The bed was made, though she would have bet he didn’t know how to make a bed. A primitive-looking piece in the corner hid a clothes hamper underneath its lift-up lid, and a plain sturdy chair occupied the opposite corner. There were even pictures on the walls.
It was a lovely room. The college kid with zero budget and less taste had grown into a man with serious taste.
Unless, she thought with a grin, his mother was responsible for all this.
Or—and the grin disappeared—his girlfriend.
She showered and dressed, then brushed her teeth. It felt funny, propping her toothbrush in the holder beside his, leaving her hair products and shaving cream and razor next to his. It felt intimate, which they weren’t. Would never again be.
Clipping the gun holster onto the waistband of her shorts, Masiela returned to the kitchen. After eating two pieces of cold pizza and drinking a bottle of water at the counter, she looked around.
She’d showered and eaten breakfast. Making up the sofa bed had taken care of the housework. Now she had nothing to do but read or watch TV and wait for Decker to return home. She’d never had an entire week with nothing to do…or an entire week where she couldn’t set so much as one foot outside the door. She might die of boredom.
There wasn’t much of the house left to explore. She walked into the dusty room across from the living room, crossed the hall and circled through the dining room and back into the kitchen, before checking out the room next to the bathroom, which appeared to be a library. The only room left was next door, a decent-size laundry room that held a washer and dryer, along with most of the things that would be stored in a garage.
Stepping around bottles of motor oil and bleach, she went to the door opposite the washer. The top half was glass, partially covered by a curtain on a glass rod, and the bottom was wood. Through the window, she could see pale peach walls on both sides.
Hesitantly she rested her fingers on the lock. In the back of her mind, an annoying voice—Decker’s, of course—was repeating his order that she stay inside and out of sight, but still her fingers tightened, then twisted the lock. She opened the door just enough to peek out and saw three steps that led to a tiny recessed stoop, neatly blocked from view on both sides by the house. The only way anyone could possibly see her there was to hide in the woods at the edge of the yard, and if
someone was out there spying on her, they could see her just as easily through the windows in the kitchen and dining room. As she stepped out, the breeze was pleasantly cool on her skin and helped clear the smells of remodeling from her lungs.
What AJ didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, she decided as she eased to the floor, knees drawn up, ankles crossed. The wood beneath her was painted deep green, playing off the peach walls and the cream steps. She’d never met Mrs. Decker, but she’d have to give her credit for two things: great taste and raising a good, if hardheaded, son. He could be a little more reasonable, but granted, couldn’t most men?
As the wind picked up, Masiela rested her head against the wall and wondered what was going on in Dallas. Had Donovan spoken to his boss yet? Did Kinney and his pals have any idea how close they were to being in handcuffs themselves?
What if Donovan, or his boss, chose to do nothing? The state didn’t like it when news broke that they’d given an innocent man a life sentence, and politics being as dirty as they were, they could decide on a cover-up instead of an exposé. She would still have options. It was just that having the cooperation of the DA’s office would make the whole process easier.
She wished she could talk to Donovan, but he’d be livid if she called and rightly so. Just as Decker would be pissed if he knew she’d set foot outside. He had no patience for too-stupid-to-live people.
With one last breath of sweetly scented air, Masiela stood up, then froze as a dog bounded out of the tree line seventy-five feet away. A short distance behind him came a teenage boy, his attention locked on the cell phone in his hands. He was texting, which caused him to stumble over an exposed tree root. With the self-consciousness inborn in teenage boys, he glanced around to see if anyone had noticed, and she pressed herself flat against the house.
If his gaze touched her, she couldn’t say. He gave no indication, but merely shook his hair back from his face, returned to texting and followed the dog toward the back of the house next door.
Protector’s Temptation Page 4