Coming ine box set, p.118
Coming in Hot: Rescue Me Box Set, page 118
“He should be so lucky,” Nick muttered with such a grim expression I shuddered. Here was a man I so didn’t want to piss off.
“Remind me to change this bandage tomorrow.” I gently tugged Nick’s sweater down and took the first aid materials back to the bathroom. When I returned to the kitchen, Nick had filled a pot with soup from the refrigerator and was slicing warm bread into the bread basket.
“Look, the wounded FBI agent can slice bread.” Nick set the knife down and picked up the basket.
“Yes, you’re extremely handy to have around the kitchen.” I gave him a condescending smile that made him laugh. “Next time remember to turn on the burner.” I reached around to twist the knob and start the flame beneath the pot of soup.
I brushed his body with mine and that damned electric tingle zapped down my spine again. I’d managed to clean and bandage his wound without feeling the slightest bit of desire, and that had been a hell of a lot more intimate than brushing my hip against his, for God’s sake. What was the matter with me?”
We ate bread while waiting for the soup. Not ideal since I’d intended to eat them at the same time, but he buttered a piece and made it look so delicious I couldn’t sit there and simply watch him.
“Great bread,” he said enthusiastically as he snatched a second piece. “God, I love warm, fresh bread.”
“Save some room for the soup, cowboy,” I said, then I took a second piece as well. He was polite enough not to guffaw at me. Probably being careful not to choke.
I slid off the bar stool to get to the stove where I ladled steaming soup into two bowls. When I turned to give Nick his, I saw him staring across the great room at my computer desk.
“See you have a radio,” he said, noticing me and the soup. “I ought to contact my office and let them know about Jake.” His tone turned husky, but when he swung around on the bar stool, his expression was normal.
“Sure,” I said. “Eat your soup first.”
He dutifully picked up his spoon and dipped it into his bowl. I decided not to try to climb back onto the bar stool and ate standing up.
We devoured our lunch in silence. Halfway through my bowl, I pushed it aside so I could fill two glasses with wine. Outside the windows, snow fell in a blanketing shroud. The crackle of the fire should have made the scene warm and cozy, but I was more aware of Nick’s silence than anything else.
He took a sip of wine, then clutching his glass, headed for the radio.
“I’ll go get more wood.” I walked to the coat rack. I didn’t want to hear him radioing in to his boss. It seemed a complete invasion of privacy.
I hurried into my coat and boots while he warmed up the radio. He didn’t seem to need any instruction on how to use it, so I grabbed the sling I used to carry wood and walked out into the whirling storm.
The cold snagged my breath and filled my lugs with icy air. I clutched the railing as I made my way down the porch stairs and headed against the wind toward the woodshed.
Head down, I plowed through the snow fighting to keep my balance. At least the wind would be at my back on the return trip.
Giving the shed door a hard push, I staggered inside. Out of reach of the effects of the storm, I bent over, braced my hands against my knees and gasped to catch my breath. I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t have to come out for wood again until tomorrow morning.
Trying to avoid looking at the body under the tarp, I gathered as many logs as I could fit into my sling and prepared myself for heading back into the storm.
Something skittered in the corner and I whirled, a short scream escaping my throat. A small mouse raced from one pile of logs to another, and I sagged in relief. What had I been thinking coming out here alone when a murderer with a gun was somewhere around? Sure, if he was any kind of smart he’d be in Larrabie’s cabin in front of the woodstove trying to keep from freezing, but what if he wasn’t? What if he’d followed Nick and me here and even now was hiding behind the wood pile waiting for his chance to attack me?
“Balls,” I muttered, more to make myself feel better than because I believed he wasn’t there. I shoved open the shed door, braced myself against the swirling snow, and hurried as fast I could lug the firewood back to my cabin.
As I reached the third step of the porch stairs, the front door opened, and Nick rushed out to take the wood sling from me. He had on no coat, but he’d stuffed his feet into his boots.
Once inside, I sagged against the door panting for breath while Nick took the wood and dumped it into the wood box by the fireplace.
“We really didn’t need more wood,” he remarked as he balanced logs on the overflowing pile to keep them from tumbling to the floor.
“Thought you might want some privacy.” I pulled my mittens off with my teeth.
“This goddamned snow is preventing any sort of rescue.” He leaned against the back of the sofa as he removed his boots. “Best they can say is they’ll send a helicopter when there’s a break in the weather.”
“That’s probably not going to be for a couple days.” I massaged my cold fingers. The temperature must have dropped fifteen degrees since we’d put Jake’s body in the shed.
“No shit.” Nick glared balefully at snow outside the windows.
“Are you in a lot of trouble?” Still braced against the door, I leaned down to unlace my boots now that I could move my fingers again.
“Of course.” Nick blew out an impatient breath. “If we’d managed to take Steve Robinson into custody I might be in considerably less. But I don’t care about being in trouble. I care about finding that bastard and making him pay for killing Jake.”
One boot down, one to go. I kept prudently silent.
“I’m off the goddamn case.” Nick stalked to my computer desk to retrieve his wine.
I put my boots on the mat and slid off my parka so I could hang it next to his. I winced when I saw the bloodstains.
“Are you going to brood now or would you prefer to play a board game? Maybe cards?” I suggested.
He gave a little laugh under his breath.
“Let’s relax in front of the fire,” he suggested. He held up his empty glass. “Any more wine?”
“Lots,” I said. When he smiled at me, some of the angry tension melted from his face.
Chapter Five
Wine made Nick expansive. And wickedly funny. It was only as the grandfather clock in the corner struck three that I realized he’d had me laughing all afternoon over stories about his job. He’d lost all the wrathful anxiety that had been eating him up since he’d radioed in. He looked downright relaxed in the squashy recliner by the fireplace.
“I don’t think I’ve laughed this hard in ages.” I gazed woefully at the empty wine bottle. Surely a third bottle would be a terrible idea. Not that it would be a third bottle, exactly. There’d only been one glass apiece left in the first bottle. That hardly even counted. Really, it would be a second bottle I’d open, presuming I had the energy to get off my ass and go open it.
“My stomach muscles hurt.” I pressed marveling fingers to my belly.
“Don’t they say laughter is the best medicine?” Nick asked, setting his empty wine glass to the side. Once again Buttons lay snoring across his knees. That cat would be devastated when the snow stopped and Nick took his amazing lap away.
“Who says I need medical attention?” I asked, but with a smile.
“Not me,” he said in a rush, but amusement lurked in the depths of his eyes. “More wine?”
“Bottle’s empty,” I said as he picked it up and discovered that fact for himself.
“Do we dare open another one?” he asked solemnly.
“We might dare depending on how drunk we think we are,” I said. “The fact I didn’t trip over that sentence proves I’m sober. One second, let me get the corkscrew.”
Nick said, “Get your hairbrush instead. If I have to spend one more second staring at that mop of tangles, I’m going to lose my shit, Lucy.”
“Lord, we wouldn’t want that.” I rolled my eyes at the same time I rolled off the sofa. Legs seemed steady enough, now would come the ultimate test. Stairs.
Perhaps using the handrail was cheating, but I navigated the staircase with no problem. I was halfway back down before I realized I was actually clutching my damn brush, and I intended to let Nick Astin brush my hair. I might not be drunk, but I was definitely tipsy.
Tipsy enough to let him brush your hair? The little voice in my head sounded arch and wistful at the same time. Neat trick I didn’t think I could pull off audibly. Of course, the fact he’d watched me go and get my brush and now had his hand outstretched to take it meant I had to let him, right? Or lose face.
“Sit down.” Between the time I’d gone upstairs and come back down, Nick had placed an indignant Buttons on the sofa. Giving me a malevolent look as if he knew it was my fault he’d been deposed, he hopped to the floor and glided up the spiral staircase to the sanctuary of my bed. I hoped he didn’t claw apart one of my throw pillows in retaliation. I only had the two left.
“Where?” I asked suspiciously.
Nick gestured at the floor.
“On the floor between your legs?” I yelped. What had I gotten into?
“Where else?” he asked.
“I thought I’d sit on the sofa and you could stand behind it,” I blurted.
“Yeah, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Where’s the fun and risk in that position?”
“Look, brush my hair. No flirting.” I huffed as I reluctantly took a seat on the floor between his legs as he sat at the edge of the recliner. Not being able to see his face made my heart pound uncomfortably.
“Why are you so afraid of a bit of harmless flirtation?” Nick brushed through my hair, gently when he encountered a tangle.
“Flirtation is never harmless,” I stated.
“Really?” Even though I couldn’t see his face, I imagined his arching eyebrows. “Why? Who does it hurt?”
“Me, when I realize it doesn’t mean anything,” I said. “We’ve been over this. Tell me another funny work story.”
“I’m work storied out,” Nick said. “I want to talk about your fear of flirting.”
“I’m not afraid of flirting. I just don’t like it.”
“How do you get to know a person you’re attracted to without flirting?” Nick disentangled another snarl. Jesus, how many did I have back there?
“Are you attracted to me, Nick?”
“Very,” he admitted.
“There,” I said, grimacing. “Was that so hard to say? Why not tell me that instead of all the fancy footwork?”
He sighed. “Because most women look at you like you’re a serial killer or a stalker if you march up to them and announce you’re attracted to them. Present company excluded apparently.”
“Try talking to them for a while. Get to know them. Share funny work stories. Then you can say it without it sounding stalkeresque,” I argued.
He sighed again. “Fine. I’m attracted to you, Lucy, and when I am finished brushing your hair I would like you to crawl onto my lap so I can kiss you.”
I squirmed uncomfortably, my jeans suddenly chafing tight.
“Too direct?” he asked when I said nothing.
“Maybe a little,” I squeaked.
“What do you want then? I’m afraid to pull you up and plant one on you without a little bit of prepping, damn it.”
“You scared I might belt you?” I wondered.
“Duh,” he said.
“You’re making this whole thing into such a complicated ordeal,” I complained. “That’s not how this ever happens in any of my romance novels.”
“As you so adroitly pointed out earlier, this is not a romance novel. This is real life.”
“Crap,” I muttered. “I was enjoying the work stories and the wine.”
“You don’t like me brushing your hair?” His voice sent naughty tingles down my spine. I was this close to purring like Buttons, damn it. He really did know how to brush a woman’s hair. All sensual and shit. Damn it.
“I do like it,” I said. “Probably too much.”
“And that’s a problem because?”
“Because I don’t intend to fall into your arms like a ripe peach,” I snapped. I crawled away from him and onto the sofa. My hair was as untangled as it was going to get.
Outside the windows, snow sifted down, silent and beautiful. The gray sky seemed low enough to touch and the bare branches of the trees near the driveway jutted with a dark velvet serenity into the falling snow. I moved to the window seat by the back door to stare out at the white-crested meadow. Had I ever seen it in full, springtime bloom or only dead asleep awaiting reawakening?
“I get it,” Nick said, sinking down beside me. His profile was mesmerizing as the snow-drenched meadow. “You don’t like meaningless flings. You like relationships.”
“I don’t like either,” I declared haughtily. “I just want to be left alone.”
“Why?” Nick plucked my hand off the window seat so he could lace his warm fingers around my cold ones. “Who was he? Who hurt you so badly you don’t want to take a chance again?”
“I haven’t had nearly enough wine to get into that stupid story,” I whispered, but I didn’t take my hand from his. His skin, soft yet strong, felt weirdly right against mine. At least for this one moment anyway.
“So there is a story,” he said, studying our entwined fingers.
“Everyone over the age of twenty has a story, Nick,” I all but spat. I tried to take back my hand, but he tightened his grip and I gave up trying.
“Want to hear mine?” he asked.
“Not if it means I have to tell you mine.” This time he didn’t try to hang on when I jerked my hand away from his. Oddly, that hurt.
“I’ll tell you anyway. I’m not afraid,” he said.
“Big, bad FBI agents are never afraid,” I mocked.
“They don’t stay big, bad alive FBI agents if they don’t pay attention to their fears. I’m afraid of lots of things, Lucy, but telling you my story isn’t one of them.”
“Good for you.” I pressed my hot forehead against the cold window pane. A gust of wind rattled the glass sending a chill through me.
“I was engaged once,” he told me.
I pretended to look at the snow, but I don’t think I fooled him. I damn well was listening.
“Mandy was her name. We went to the same college. I asked her senior year, and we set the date for a month after graduation. Then I got recruited by the FBI, and she didn’t see herself as an agent’s wife and dropped me like a hot potato.”
“Surely you didn’t go all the way through four years of college without thinking about the FBI,” I protested. “And what’s wrong with being an agent’s wife?”
“I thought about it a lot. Our worst fights – hell, our only fights were all FBI related. I was supposed to be a psychologist.”
“Aha,” I muttered darkly. “I knew you’ve been profiling me the whole afternoon. Trying to fit me into a neat psychological basket.”
“And failing miserably,” he said with a sigh. “You make me sound so callous and clinical, you know that?”
“Psychologists should be dispassionate and disengaged,” I told him. “You never get involved with your patients. First rule.”
“Since when have you been my patient?” he asked.
“Whatever. You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t,” he said evenly. “All I see and hear is someone determined as hell to keep everyone at arms’ length so she doesn’t have to give a shit about them.”
“Why shouldn’t I? Nobody gives a shit about me, and that’s the goddamn truth!” I cried. I swallowed against a hot lump in my throat. I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Because you won’t let anyone in!” He all but shouted back, frustration written in every line of his face. “Why is that? Why?”
“Look, you can’t waltz into my life out of some goddamn blizzard and start asking me to open up all my darkest secrets to you. It doesn’t work that way. It never works that way. You’re bored and in a rush to figure me out because we’ve only got two or three days, but I won’t crack like a nut simply because you fancy yourself some sort of goddamned gold medalist in psychology.” I glared at him, daring him to try to fight back. He didn’t have a leg to stand on. I had him pegged.
“He didn’t die, this man who hurt you, did he? But it’s grief in your voice every time I get you angry enough to yell at me,” Nick said, sweeping a hand through his hair. “So what did happen? Why can’t you talk about it? Talking about things has a way of taking away their power. Of helping. Why don’t you want help?”
“Because if I wanted help, I wouldn’t ask for it from some fucking FBI agent like you,” I snarled. “You’d be the last person I’d turn to!”
“Because you’re attracted to me,” he stated, the arrogant bastard. Only he didn’t sound like he was gloating. He sounded upset. “But what about a professional? Have you ever considered therapy?”
“Have you ever considered shutting the fuck up?” I slid off the window seat and stomped away, the view outside ruined. My stomach churned, and I wondered if I was about to puke up a gutful of red wine. That was all I needed.
“You’re obviously distressed,” he said softly. “And I hate ripping the bandage off the wound like this, but I can’t unask all my questions, can I?”
“No, but you can stop poking at the scar.” I wrapped my arms around myself in a vain attempt to keep from flying to pieces. “You can do that.”
“It’s not a scar. It’s an open wound,” he said.
“And you’re fucking peroxide,” I cried. “What have I told you about open wounds?”
“Clean them with purified water or mild cleansers and keep them moist,” he answered promptly.
“Oh, good, you paid attention. Now you get a gold star. Only you don’t because you’re only parroting the words back. You have no conception of what they really mean.”
He stared at me, his face shadowed in the darkening room. Sunset was close.
“Next I bet you’ll suggest we go to bed together to work out my pain through mindless fucking,” I predicted, my voice ragged and bitter. “No way. Balls to that idea.”
