The Dark Gate

She jerked her arm away and winced as harsh discomfort radiated down her arm from her shoulder. “I’m not an invalid,” she said tightly. Silence, heavy and reproachful, followed her into the living room.

The room was as masculine as the bedroom, but more fully decorated. Leather upholstery and rustic wood sat against a backdrop of light olive walls and hardwood floors with area rugs reminiscent of the southwest. On the walls were framed prints of sailboats caught on rough seas. The room was simple, yet attractive. Inviting. The kitchen, on the other hand, was plain and functional.

She caught the scent of a mouthwatering aroma and made a small, involuntary sound of appreciation. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until that moment.

He watched her with an expression that appeared almost boyish. “I tried something new tonight. I hope you like it.”

Be the bitch, she told herself, but she couldn’t do it. Self-protective she might be, but she’d never intentionally crossed the line to cruel.

“It smells delicious.”

Though the words were without inflection or an ounce of enthusiasm, the smile that lit his eyes set butterflies to flight in her stomach. Larsen nearly groaned out loud. She might as well admit defeat right here and now. How was she ever going to steel herself against this man’s charm? And she must. She couldn’t let him get too close.

Jack seated her at the table, then went to fetch their dinner as Larsen’s gaze followed him. He moved with an athlete’s strength and coordination, every movement controlled and sure. As bodyguards went, she could have done worse. Much worse. Heaven knew, she enjoyed watching him.

If only his sharp eyes didn’t have to watch her quite so closely in return.

Jack watched with amusement as Larsen dropped her fork for the second time. She was clearly right-handed, but trying to eat with her left to avoid jarring her injured shoulder. With an exasperated sigh and a wry roll of her eyes, she picked up the uncooperative fork, then dug back into the chicken paprika he’d cut into bite-size pieces for her.

The woman was a puzzle. One moment she was snapping at him for touching her, then minutes later he caught her watching him over her dinner plate with raw feminine interest in those golden-brown eyes. Was the Ice Queen warming up to him at last? Or was she, as he was beginning to suspect, no ice queen at all?

He watched her devour the meal with obvious relish. “You’re hungry.”

She looked at him with those wide, naturally slumberous eyes as she swallowed. “I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday. And this is—” she made a sound of appreciation deep in her throat “—unbelievable.”

The compliment pleased him. He saw an opening to draw her out and took it. “Do you like to cook?”

Her mouth twisted into a rueful frown. “As little as possible. I never really learned. My dad didn’t know how and my mom…died when I was eight.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I’m over it.” But something moved in her eyes, sharp and fresh, belying her words. He could almost see her pulling back and away, her expression turning into that of the aloof attorney. Conversation over.

Not if he could help it. “My aunt taught me to cook when I was ten. Aunt Myrtle. She was an odd bird, nice in a zany sort of way. Her weirdness drove my mom crazy. She finally went too far when I was sick one time. Myrtle took me to her house, tried to cure me. I don’t know what happened—just that she used some heavy woo-woo stuff. My mom took me home and never let her visit again.”

Larsen’s eyes had lost that defensiveness and had taken on a gleam of interest. “Did she hurt you?”

“No. That’s the funny part. When she finished, I was fine.”

“You mean, she really healed you?”

“I don’t know. My parents wouldn’t tell me what happened and I never saw Aunt Myrtle again. Last I heard she was still living in the Virginia mountains, only about an hour away from here. I should go see her one of these days.”

When they’d finished eating, Larsen dabbed her mouth with the napkin, then stood. “Thank you. Dinner was excellent.”

As she reached for her plate, he grabbed her wrist, blanketing his brain in a calming silence. “Nope. You’re company. No touching the dirty dishes.”

She stared at him, but to his delight, a twinkle appeared in her eye. “You’re just afraid I’ll drop your plate like I kept dropping my fork.”

Self-deprecating humor. Who would have thought? He grinned at her, coaxing the twinkle in her eye into a glimmer of a smile. “Let’s just say, I’m being cautiously hospitable.”

A full-fledged smile illuminated her face, transforming the Ice Queen into a true angel, making him ache to pull her close and kiss her.

For a heart-stopping moment her eyes warmed until her expression seemed to be the visual equivalent of his thoughts.

She wanted the kiss as much as he did.

Then golden lashes swept down to hide her emotions. “Do you mind if I watch some television?”

Jack took a deep breath and released her wrist, uncorking the noise in his head. “Help yourself. The remote’s on the coffee table.” What just happened? She wanted him. She wanted him. Hot damn. He seriously doubted the formidable Larsen Vale ever gave in to such base desires, but a guy could dream.

He carried the dishes to the sink. The soundtrack from a Friends rerun and the sweet sound of Larsen’s laughter kept him company as he did the dishes. He could do this. Every night for the rest of his life. A woman’s company over dinner. Soft, feminine laughter filling his house. Larsen’s laughter. Hell, yeah.

The sudden jolt of longing startled him. Longing for an honest-to-god life and future with the beautiful woman whose touch could keep the madness at bay.

If he didn’t blow it with her first. And he would, if he pressed her too hard about this case. Yet if he didn’t…how many more would die?

Larsen rose as the final scene of the James Bond movie slid into the fifteenth car commercial of the evening. She’d paid little attention to the flick, too aware of the cop watching her from the sofa.

“I need a bath,” she told him.

He visibly started. “Can’t you wait until…tomorrow?”

“No, I feel gross. I’ll sleep better after a hot soak.” She still had flakes of dried blood on her shoulder and arm. “Can I borrow something to sleep in?”

Jack’s eyelids sank over those blue eyes, sending tendrils of warmth snaking down her limbs. “Lady, you can have anything of mine you want. You sure you want clothes?”

“Yes.”

“Are you certain you’re up for this?”

“I feel fine.” And, amazingly, she did. Her brows pulled together. “My shoulder doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

Jack set his Coke on the coffee table, his gaze skimming leisurely down her bare legs. “Don’t get dressed afterward.”

She jerked her head to face him. “Jack…”

His smile dawned sexy and playful. “Relax, Larsen. I just need to change your bandage. Wrap your top half in a towel so you don’t have to take your shirt off.”

She stared at him, scrambling to gather the wits he’d scattered to the wind with his suggestive comments. “Right,” she said at last, and spun on her heel toward the bathroom, wondering if she should forego the hot bath and opt for a cold shower instead.

Steamy moisture hung in the air, clinging to the mirror in a wet fog. Standing on the terry bath mat, Larsen slipped into the borrowed pajama pants she’d brought in with her, then wrapped a dry bath towel tight around her breasts, tucking the end under her arm. Clutching it tight to her chest with one hand, she fluffed her wet hair with the other and called to her host.

“Jack, I’m ready for you!”

Larsen groaned as the raw double entendre echoed in her ears, making her cheeks flood with heat, which just flustered her more. She was twenty-eight years old. The Ice Bitch, for heaven’s sake. Ice bitches did not get flustered over hot cops. They weren’t supposed to blush over anything.

She heard the doorknob twist. As the door opened, she tried to fake a calm disinterest, but the sexy smile Jack leveled on her sent heat of a different kind flooding her system.