Quintic
Page 52
“Want me to drive you to the airport, Darling of mine?”
“No.”
“Want me to help you pack?”
“No.”
He couldn’t help himself. “Want me to kiss you?”
Her cheeks turned pink, and she retreated to the bathroom. Their conversation had not gone too badly. One of his men might know of an Italian cop they could hire on the side.
He knocked and yelled through the unlocked bathroom door, “Is Ingrid going with you?”
“No,” she answered after a while.
Good. Ingrid’s way of taking take of her prized writer-friend-surrogate child was to get her drunk and sexed up, preferably by Italian men, preferably by younger Italian men. No Ingrid meant no temptation. Yah right.
He found her rosiness arousing while her withdrawals rendered him utterly helpless. He might even consider giving her a fucking younger Italian stud if he thought it would help, but she wasn’t ready. She was too damn fragile still. For now, she might be shying away from his caresses, but it wouldn’t last. She was damn resilient, the toughest woman he knew. He intended to be near when she was indeed ready.
“Are you shopping for guys too?” No answer. “Are you?” Not now for sure, but later?
“What if I am?”
Indeed, what if? He chose the safest option. “Can I shop too?”
“You can do whatever the heck you want, Big guy!”
Not good. “Are you planning on staying in there until your plane leaves?”
Silence beyond the door. OK then, Pussycat. Only one way to find out. A lock wouldn’t have made a fucking difference.
“Christopher James MacLaren, get out!”
He had caught her lying in her oversized empty bathtub. Yup, napping. “No fucking way.”
She rolled her eyes at him but stayed in the tub.
He sat down on the rim. “What are you doing, Angel?”
“Thinking.”
“What about?”
“Things.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
He smiled. “You stole my line, Princess.”
“Fuck you.”
I will, Princess. I will. I’m waiting for you. “You should talk about it. How about Reid?” She smirked. “Ingrid?” She frowned harder. “One of the guys?” He would let her talk to anyone on his team. It could even be Hamilton for all he cared. Ham was better than an Italian guy; he could fire the guy after. Beat him up.
She showed him the finger.
“How about Johnson? He’s good at it.” He’d better be, he was the team’s appointed shrink. Not that the doctor had offered any helpful tips besides the ‘issues’ and ‘give it time’ shit.
“Really? Is that why you talk to him so much?”
OK, so he didn’t believe in the psychoanalysis shit for himself. He didn’t need therapy; he had her. Before her, he had survived on scotch and fights and jogging and smoking, random women and attitude. She worked a million times better, so now he only fell back on scotch, fighting, jogging and smoking those times when she threw him out.
He sighed. “Promise me something, Angel.”
“I know this is a trick.”
Of course, it was. But she was healing, and when pussycats healed, the first thing that came back was their damn curiosity.
“OK, fine, Big guy, I’ll bite. What?”
The damn woman was worse than a cat. Fucking lovely. “I wanna be the first.”
A pink hue crept over her cheeks, but she couldn’t pull back now, could she? Not from the fucking bath.
“What are you talking about, Christopher? I will not promise you anything! Who do you think you are? Get out. I have to pack; the plane leaves in three hours, and I’m no way near drunk yet,” she snapped back at him.
A question, a negative, a question, then a change of subject composed her retort, so yup, she was healing pretty damn fast. She had understood fucking well what he had asked too. I get it, Angel. The creep has disgusted you, and now you’re fed up of men and sick of cops. Again.
The cop thing did not worry him. She forever hated all policemen (it had almost become a habit), all except him, him and a couple of others (his team, including Charles, three or four rookies at the precinct, maybe Steve too now). Hence, as long as her animosity towards cops did not extend to him, he didn’t give a shit.
Men, she disliked from time to time. Her previous remedies had included brainless young jocks, faraway Italians, gentle older men and jerks. Apparently, she had kept up the routine for years with very few intermissions; he was the most recent break. He was determined to be the last, but with that imagination of hers, she might fucking convince herself she was due for an Italian stud, or a young Italian jerk with an older man’s gentle manners.
She abandoned the previously half-packed bag in a corner for a small carry-on. She barely filled that with her laptop, her toothbrush, a bottle of wine for the road, her cure for her fear of flying, and a single change of clothes. Good, she’ll be busy shopping then.
She insisted on taking a cab. He let her go with a kiss on the top of her head. Thirty minutes later, he was home packing a change of clothes and a sweater in a backpack. He wasn’t upset nor angry.
She had held her breath during his kiss but had not shied away, another sign she was getting better. Italian men weren’t so bad, right? They had never hurt her. I just want you back with a smile on your face. The rest doesn’t matter. Yah right.
When he realised his fists were clenched, he changed into sports gear and decided to go jogging. He spent the rest of the day varnishing the terrace bench. Her pale skin was going to be stunning against the dark wood. He intended to let it dry overnight, apply another coat tomorrow morning, then drive straight to his camp.