Just A Little Bit Married?

She glanced over at him. “Surely,” she said, “you don’t need to wear that—that holster of yours inside.”

“The word is gun,” he said, “and it won’t do me much good if it’s in one room and I’m in another.” He knew what bothered her. Guns belonged to another world, a big, messy world that shouldn’t be allowed to intrude on her here.

A world Raz knew only too well. “Baking bread?” he asked.

“No,” she said shortly, turning back to her dough. “I’m kneading it. The baking comes later.”

He grinned, more pleased by the touch of sarcasm than not. She looked very tidy and domestic standing there with her sleeves neatly rolled up, not one hair on her head out of place. Except...his grin widened. “You’ve got dough on the tip of your nose.”

She lifted a hand automatically to wipe her nose, saw the dough covering it, and grimaced. “I suppose you want to have that talk you keep referring to,” she said stiffly. “There’s coffee, if you like. Or some fruit juice in the refrigerator.”

“Juice sounds good.” But instead of going to the refrigerator he stopped next to her. She glanced at him, wary. He reached out and skimmed a finger down her nose. Kind of a cute little nose, short and pointy. Her skin felt soft and fine pored, slightly cool, and made him think of thick cream.

She stared at him, suspicious and stirred. Such big eyes she had, the color of sky hazed by high-flying cirrus clouds. He liked looking into them almost as much as he liked touching her.

Too much.

He quickly rubbed the bit of dough off the tip of her nose and stepped back. Absurdly, his heart was pounding. He was sure—almost sure—his sudden turmoil didn’t show. “There,” he said, and wiped his hand on the towel that sat on the table before continuing to the refrigerator. “First a question. How bad is your hip?”

She blinked at him, startled. “Why do you ask?”

“If I tell you to run, can you?”

“Oh.” She lifted half the dough, turned it, punched it down. “It depends. My hip wouldn’t keep me from running, actually, though I’d probably be a bit awkward and slow. But the sciatic nerve damage that occurred when the joint was displaced affected my calf muscles. The degree of disability varies, depending on how tired the muscles are. Sometimes I hardly notice a problem. Sometimes ... the muscles just don’t cooperate.”

“Does that mean I shouldn’t count on you being able to run?”

“If I’ve been using my cane, assume I can’t run. If I haven’t been using it, I could probably run for a couple blocks.”

“Good enough.” He pulled out the clear pitcher that held an orangey-red juice. “Next question.” He smiled. “Where are the glasses?”

“In the cabinet behind me.”

He closed the refrigerator. “Now tell me something else. Why are you so blasted certain you don’t need to go to a safe house?”

She didn’t look up. Her long, narrow hands looked surprisingly strong as they worked the dough rhythmically: lift, turn, press. “You answer a question for me first,” she said at last. “How do you think Javiero found out where Carl lived?”

“There’s no way to say for sure.”

“Give me your best guess.”

He stopped barely a foot away from her to open the cabinet and take out a glass. Beneath the ripe scent of the yeast he caught the freshness of flowers. He thought of the scented body lotion he’d seen in her bathroom and wondered where on her body he might find that very feminine scent. “The most likely way would be if he knew who Carl was from the first shooting, watched for him at the hospital, and followed him home.”

“That would indicate he doesn’t want to risk the increased security at the hospital, wouldn’t it? And that he doesn’t have access to any special information about the witnesses’ identities or addresses. And you,” she said—lift, turn, press—“are supposed to see to it he doesn’t follow me home.”

Damn. She was bright enough to be dangerous. “True,” he agreed, pouring some juice. Her head was bent over her work, leaving the back of her neck bare except for a feathery fringe. What would she say if he asked if he could put his face up against the delicate skin there so he could smell her better?

He shook his head, aggravated with himself. “But that’s just the most likely explanation, not the only one. And he could change his mind about hospital security. Men like Javiero aren’t gifted with patience.”

“He hasn’t had time to grow frustrated yet, and your brother’s task force could pick him up any day.” The dough grew supple and shiny as she continued to work it. “And Javiero is an inner-city gang member, not some criminal genius. How would he know how to find me? I’m pretty sure he didn’t notice me that night.”

“The night he brought his Uzi to the emergency room, you mean.”

She nodded.

Raz leaned against the counter and considered the woman standing in front of him, kneading her bread dough. The juice was some exotic, tropical blend, not what he’d expected of her. But Sara Grace kept surprising him, didn’t she?

She was frightened. He was sure of that. She’d been terrified earlier, and she was still afraid. But she was more stubborn than she was scared.

She irritated the hell out of him.

One way or another he had to take control back. Of himself and of her, too, since she refused to do what she should to keep herself safe. She had to be kept safe. He couldn’t allow anything else.

The most powerful stimuli for humans were the same as those for other animals: hunger, fear and sex. He couldn’t starve the blasted woman into submission, and fear had oddly little effect. So... “You know,” he said, and smiled, “living together like this will be easier if we get to know each other a bit better.”

“I ... suppose so.” Lift, turn, press.

He set down his juice and moved closer. Too close, by a couple inches, for courtesy. “I do have one other question.” He could smell the flowers on her skin much better from here. He bent his head slightly.

Her voice was a touch breathless. “Oh?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He watched the nervous color seep into her cheeks and eased even closer, wanting her to have his scent in her nostrils, too. Wanting her to react “Where am I supposed to sleep?”

Her head stayed bent. The tip of her tongue darted out, touched her lips, then hid inside her mouth again. “I...I thought I might rent one of those beds. You know. The kind that folds up.”

“Oh, yeah, I know what you mean.” And I know what you want, even if you aren’t sure. Not sex, not yet, anyway. She wanted touching. Raz reached up ever so casually to toy with that fringe of hair at her nape.

She jolted.

“Where should we put it?” His fingers skimmed her skin.

“Wh-what?” Lift, turn, press. The dough was glossy and smooth now.

“My bed.” He pulled softly on one strand of hair. Sweet Sara. She obviously knew she should say something, do something, but he kept his touch so light, so—nearly—innocent. She didn’t know how to tell him to stop.

Not when she liked it so much.

“In the living room, I guess,” she managed.

“Do you think it will fit?” He smiled, enjoying his double meaning.

“I don’t...” Her voice trailed off. Goose bumps appeared on her skin. She folded the dough over one more time, but this time she didn’t squish it down. “I hadn’t thought about it. I suppose it will...fit.”

“That’s good, then,” he said softly. “In the living room will be fine.” Yes, in the living room would be good. He had a quick flash of Sara lying, stark naked, on that cramped little love seat with the pink and blue flowers. She was lifting her arms, welcoming him. Her legs were already parted.

Somehow he didn’t groan.

The look she slid him was wary, but her cheeks were pleasured pink from his attention. “I’m not—I need to—excuse me.”