Kitabı oku: «Sleeping With Beauty», sayfa 2

Unless she asked him to, of course.

“Look, Princess, the curtain is a dark color. I won’t be seeing a thing, okay?”

She went stiff as a mannequin at his words, except for the faint twitch under her right eye. Teeth clenched, she fairly sputtered, “Why did you call me that?”

He was completely taken aback by this unexpected reaction: “What? Why did I call you what? Princess? I don’t know. You just seem—”

She boldly met his eyes, all Rambo and don’t-mess-with-me. Damn appealing. “Don’t ever call me that.”

“Why?”

“I…I don’t remember. But I don’t like it.” Even over the sound of bathwater rapping against porcelain, the gravity in her voice was evident.

“Fine. But I gotta call you something.”

The bristles retracted somewhat as she seemed to think this over. “How about Beatrice?”

He frowned. “Beatrice? Where did that come from?”

She shrugged. “It’s a nice enough name. And far better than the P word.”

Dan refused to delve into the princess thing. Tomorrow, hopefully, he wouldn’t be calling her anything at all. But for tonight, there needed to be something. And Beatrice didn’t suit her. Actually, he wasn’t sure what suited her. Mystery woman. Innocent one minute, full of fire the next.

“How about Angel?”

A slow, soft smile broke on her face. “You think I’m an angel?”

Her smile gripped him low in the gut. Match struck rough surface and he lost himself, lost his mind and his control for a moment. “I think you got the face of an angel. I’m not sure about the rest of you…”

His traitorous gaze traveled the length of her as his foolish mouth uttered, “Yet.”

What the hell was he thinking playing this game with her? Dan admonished himself seconds later. A game that would be over before it even had a chance to begin.

That was an easy one. He wasn’t thinking.

He watched her lips part, hoped she was going to scold him with that sweet brogue of hers, tell him to get out and go straight to hell.

But she didn’t. She licked her lower lip, slow and seductive and totally unguarded.

He snatched open the shower curtain. Hot steam poured into the tiny bathroom. “Let’s go. Clothes off, Angel. Time to get wet.”

Three

Hot water pelted her aching muscles. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, allowing the water to cleanse her wound and her spirit. The fresh citrus scent of shampoo drifted from her hair, while the soapy suds slid down her back, over her buttocks, thighs and calves.

All anxiety slipped down the drain with the bubbles and the day’s dirt.

“How’s it going in there?”

Her pulse kicked and her skin tightened at the gruff query.

So much for relaxation.

Dan stood guard outside the sway of a shower curtain, the outline of his exceptional frame a mere inches from her naked body—strangely, a body and a face she’d hardly recognized when she’d spied herself in the mirror earlier. The strangeness of this entire situation was staggering, from the blank canvas that was her mind to the thrilling shots of awareness she felt whenever her rescuer was near.

But there was nothing for it. She was going to stay here tonight, in his cabin in the woods, feel an overwhelming surge of need and try like hell to keep her wits about her.

Actually, step one of that strategy had gone off without a hitch. Before she’d removed her clothing and stepped under the spray, she’d removed Dan. When she was safely behind the blue curtain, she’d told him he could return, as per their agreement.

And they’d had to make an agreement. The man was incredibly stubborn and protective and arrogant and handsome and—

“Angel?” The pet name glided over her heated skin like the soft, cotton washcloth in her hand.

“Yes?”

“I asked how it’s going in there.”

“Everything’s fine. Just fine. Thank you. No worries. Or problems.” Except for the fact that she was rambling on like an idiot.

“You sure you don’t need any help?”

“Positive. Except…”

“Except for what?”

“Well, there is one thing—soap.”

“You don’t like it?”

“There is none.”

“Oh. Sorry about that. I must’ve used up the last of it this morning.”

“Perhaps I could use the shampoo as a—”

“No, no, I’ll get you another bar.”

Over the thrashing water, she heard a cabinet door open, then the sound of paper being torn. And before she could even think, blink or gasp, a hand—Dan’s hand—shot through one side of the curtain.

“Here you go.”

She mumbled a quick, “Thank you,” but didn’t take the soap from his hand. In fact, she didn’t move at all.

She felt incredibly exposed as she stared at his hand, at his long, tapered fingers wrapped around that pale-blue cake of soap. Shudders of electricity began in her stomach, then dropped lower as her mind conjured images of that hand cupping something else…cupping her, her face, her hip, her breast.

“It’s the manly scented stuff, but it gets the job done.”

Clearing her throat, she managed to say, “I’m sure that it does.”

All she had to do was take the bloody bar. What was wrong with her? When she’d fallen and hit her head, had she unleashed some lusty side of her that had gone unchecked? Because, Lord, she felt as though she’d never had thoughts like this.

“Aren’t you going to take it, Angel?”

With an unsteady hand, she reached out. Her fingers wrapped around his, eased the bar from his hand.

Soft and wet met dry and rough.

Her breath came out in a rush. Her fingers lingered.

So did his.

“Angel?”

She snatched her hand back. The soap slipped, dropped into the tub with a thud. She stared at it, unable to go near it. “I’m almost done in here,” she called out. “I just have to rinse off. You can go. Really. I can dress myself.”

He was silent for a moment, then, “You sure?”

“Quite sure.” Her tone excessively firm, she added, “Now, please go. I’m fine. I’ll be dressed and out in a few moments.”

“All right. But careful getting out. It’s slippery.”

When he left, she snatched up the notorious bar of soap and leaned against the shower wall, tried to regain her composure. Around her, the steam moved, breathed, like a living being.

Suddenly, a memory tugged at her mind. She’d been here, or in some place like this, surrounded by some kind of white haze, before. And more than once.

She tried to claim more of the impression, but the vision evaporated and she was left with only current memories, ones that made her skin tighten with a frightening sense of excitement she didn’t recognize but was tempted to explore.

She stood directly under the shower’s spray, hoping to rid herself of such thoughts and feelings. But as soon as she touched the fragrant bar of soap to her skin, she was lost.

For, just moments ago, it had been in his hand.

Nothing fancy. But it’ll do.

Dan scooped up some of the warmed, canned spaghetti into two bowls, placed a few slices of buttered bread on a plate and brought it all to the table. He was no cook. Too much career, too little time for anything else.

“May I help?”

Dan turned at the silky-sounding offer, watched the woman walk out of the bathroom, rosy-cheeked, hair down and damp. “Nope. It’s all set.”

She was wearing his clothes. Big and baggy clothes. But that didn’t stop his imagination from running wild. Just as it had during her shower.

He’d stood there, back to the curtain, trying to stop himself from thinking, from breaking the zipper on his jeans, and from sliding open the curtain and joining her. And now, here she stood, dressed in his gray sweats. Her skin, her thighs, the backs of her knees, her breasts, all brushing against the fabric.

Dan forced himself to get back under control, back to the hard-nosed lawman he was. Maybe the boys down at the office were playing a trick on him. Maybe his superiors had sent this sexy creature up here to make him nuts, make him cave, make him so desperate for the world of the living that he’d admit he was wrong for messing up the perp responsible for killing his fiancée.

“Everything looks wonderful,” she remarked, glancing around the table.

It sure as hell did… “Clothes fit all right?”

She lifted the sweatshirt just enough for him to see the waistband and one blessed inch of flat stomach. “These pants are a tad large. I have to hold them up with one hand, but I don’t mind.”

Heat pounded him in the groin. This was too much. He stalked into the kitchen, fumbling around in a drawer, grabbed a piece of rope and came back.

“Lift the sweatshirt again.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Tentatively, she did as he instructed. He had the rope around her waist in one second, tied in another. “There.”

She stared up at him, an uncertain smile playing around her mouth. “Much better. Thank you.”

He should’ve taken a step back, run out the friggin’ front door, but he didn’t. He stood there, looked down into her eyes and wanted to haul her against him, cover her mouth with his, feel her tongue…

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw.

It had been a long time since he’d stood this close to a woman and felt a pull so strong it fairly knocked him off his feet.

Getting involved with someone in the past four years, even sexually, had seemed too easy and totally undeserved. No matter how masochistic it sounded, he felt the need to punish himself, deny himself, always and forever. After a while, he’d just forgotten to want.

Then, this violet-eyed temptress had stepped into his path, got herself hurt, got herself dropped between his sheets. Thank God she was only going to be around here for one night.

He held out a chair for her. “Have a seat.”

She sat with her back to the fire, her wet hair glowing tricolor fire. “If I didn’t say this before, I really appreciate all that you’ve done. I’m sure I’ve inconvenienced you terribly, and as soon as you deem me well enough to travel, I’ll be out of your way.”

“It’s not a problem.” What a bold-faced lie.

“But it is a bother. Were you on holiday? Is this your vacation spot?”

“No.”

“Oh. Do you live up here year-round then?”

“No.”

“Then what are you doing up here?”

His gaze lifted. He watched as she twirled her spaghetti against a spoon. “You know, you ask a lot of questions for someone with no memory.”

Spaghetti stopped twirling, forehead creased. “Are you in some type of law enforcement, Dan?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why would you ask that?”

“You’re very suspicious of me. I doubt very much that I am a criminal.”

He doubted it, too, but after five years as a cop and ten as a marshal, you wondered about everyone. Especially someone you were attracted to. Could make for big problems.

“Perhaps I’m asking questions,” she began, returning to her dinner, “because I’m frustrated. I have no memory, no identification, no personal effects. Perhaps I’m asking questions because I think learning about someone else’s past might trigger memories of my own.”

“Is that really what you think?”

“Yes.”

The pasta suddenly felt like worms in Dan’s mouth. He dropped his fork onto his plate, sat back in his chair. “I have no past.”

She raised her gaze, studied him. “What does that mean?”

“That means, Angel, that I don’t want to talk about it.” He ground out the words, frustration building inside him.

“Sounds rather daunting. Maybe you would feel better if you did.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Let’s try and—”

“You know what I feel?” he interrupted.

“What?”

“Tired.” He pushed away from the table, took his bowl into the kitchen, dropped it in the sink, enjoying the crashing sound it made.

Sure, he owed this woman his care, his protection. But his personal life was none of her business. It was no one’s business. “You can take my bed tonight. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“The couch is very small. I’d hate to have you be so uncomfortable.”

A swift jolt of desire rose up and bit him on the butt. She was making him crazy with all her questions and good manners. He spun around. “We could share the bed.”

Her gaze met his for a moment, then dropped to her plate. “No, no.” Her cheeks flushed pink. “I didn’t mean… The offer for your bed is a very generous one.”

He exhaled. “Tomorrow, we’ll head into town. See the doctor.”

“All right,” she agreed, taking a dainty bite of pasta.

And the doctor could take her off his hands for good. Then things would get back to normal. Fishing and cussing and forgetting about the past. He could go back to eating in peace and not thinking about beautiful violet-eyed women and where his soap had been.

At that moment, the beautiful violet-eyed woman in question stood up and began collecting plates and bowls. “You know, you’re a very good cook, Dan. Was there fresh thyme in the tomato sauce?”

The woman had to be a diplomat or something. He shrugged. “You’d have to ask Chef Boyardee.”

“You have a chef?”

Dan paused, rewound. Then a chuckle—an honest to goodness chuckle—escaped his dusty lungs. Leaning back against the sink, he shook his head. “Man, you really have lost your memory. The pasta’s from a can.”

“And so is the chef?”

He nodded.

Her face broke out into a wide grin.

His, too.

He reached for her plates and placed them in the sink, this time with only a mild clatter. She disarmed him with that smile and easy way of hers. Extraordinary.

Yet worrisome. If she could make him smile a dozen times—and laugh—all in one day, she was a bigger batch of trouble than he’d even imagined.

“You should probably head in to bed,” he suggested. “I have an injured horse who needs tending.”

She nodded. “Are you sure I can’t help?”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, thanks again for dinner.”

“No problem.”

“And I really hope my memory returns in the morning.”

“So do I.” Truer words were never spoken. “Make sure to keep the door open a crack.”

“Okay. Good night.” After one of those irresistible smiles, she turned and left the room.

“Good night, Angel.”

Dan grabbed a beer from the fridge and went to the couch, his bed for the night. In the fireplace, the flames crackled and sputtered, fighting to stay alive. He knew their fierceness, their hunger.

For four years, he’d been crawling around on his belly, unwilling to stand up. He’d never thought he’d have the pluck.

From the bedroom, he heard the woman pull back the comforter, heard the bed dip with the weight of her body.

Around her, he had the pluck. Around her, he had the urge to stand.

He drained his beer, then headed for the front door.

Around her, he had a new hunger, dangerous and demanding.

Four

Eyes closed, body relaxed, she floated in a shallow sea of warm light, soft sand. No cares, no worries, just peace.

Dropping down beside her, he grinned, then took her hand and kissed the palm. He had that look in his eye, the one that made her weak and wanting. Waves curved, lapped against them both, between them. The man slipped a plum under her nose, then a silver plate of biscuits, still warm.

She inhaled deeply, smiled. “Tea and fruit…and biscuits.”

“I don’t make tea, Angel.”

A gasp shot forth from deep in her throat as she forced her eyes open, forced her dreams back where they belonged. The first thing she saw was morning sunlight, yellow and brilliant.

Then she saw him.

Freshly showered and looking far more handsome than any man had a right to in jeans and a black T-shirt, Dan towered above her, a touch of amusement glinting in those deep-brown orbs of his.

Her mind reeled. Yesterday was all that she recalled; the accident, memory gone, shower, hands touching, dinner, sleep—sleep in this man’s bed, the scent of him in the sheets that tangled between her legs. Her skin warmed at the thought.

“I don’t make biscuits either,” he said.

“What was I saying?” she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

An eyebrow shot up. “You were giving me your breakfast order.”

“I wasn’t.”

A devilish grin tugged at his mouth. “I’m afraid you were.”

If she’d given him a breakfast order, what else had she said? How long had he been standing there? “I was obviously dreaming.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe you were remembering.”

“I don’t think so—”

“Maybe you were remembering that you had a maid or something.”

“That’s ridiculous.” But his suggestion didn’t feel strange or wrong. She stared up at the log ceiling with its smooth waves of wood, and willed herself to remember anything; a favorite food, her parents’ names…a boyfriend.

Dan shrugged pensively. “A maid, an accent, swanky manners. But pretty open and honest—I’m thinking you don’t live in the U.S.”

“I don’t know.” Frustration stacked up like bricks in her mind.

“Traveling alone, though, in the mountains. Why would you do something like that?”

Though her headache was gone now, the bruise above her eyebrow was still tender. The niggling ache intermingled with the aggravation she felt. “Do you mind if we take a break from the questions? At least until after breakfast?”

“All right. But we don’t have tea or biscuits.”

She pulled the covers back and sat on the edge of the bed. “No problem. I’ll make something for myself. And for you if you haven’t—”

“No, actually I haven’t.”

“Perfect.”

His eyes narrowed skeptically. “You can cook?”

She stood, gave him a proud look. “Of course I can.” Could she cook? She felt no answer to this, no instinctual pull toward the kitchen, and sadly no recollection of what any kitchen tools were called and used for.

Oh, well. She would know soon enough if she possessed any culinary talents.

“What do you have in the kitchen?” she asked, stretching. “We’ve already covered biscuits and tea. How about eggs, bacon—”

“Before you turn into Julia Child, tell me how you’re feeling this morning.”

She touched her bruise gingerly. “Hurts a little, but other than that I’m right as rain.”

“Right as rain, huh?”

“Yes. Don’t you think I look better?”

In response, his gaze slid down the length of her. She still wore his baggy sweats, but at that moment it felt as though she wore nothing at all. Strangely, the feeling didn’t fill her with apprehension. Instead, pleasure flowed in her veins, unfamiliar yet wonderful.

She asked him, “Are we going to town today?”

“I don’t think so. Last night I was looking through an old first-aid manual. Said you should be relatively inactive for forty-eight hours. It’s a long way on foot. Too long for you.”

“I could ride,” she suggested.

He shook his head. “I only have the one horse and he’s injured.”

“Tomorrow then?”

“Yeah, tomorrow.”

Dan was a good five feet away, leaning against the wall, tall, fiercely handsome, with a history of pain and suspicion and need behind his eyes. In that moment, all she wanted to do was run to him, fall into his arms, hold him as he held her. Such a strong pull for a man she hardly knew. But it was the truth. Despite his edgy manner of speaking, she liked him, felt a kinship with him. They had both forgotten their pasts—one out of choice, one not.

The air seemed to warm between them, cracking with an alarming jolt of electricity. A muscle jumped in Dan’s jaw. “I’m gonna head outside, chop some more wood. I think it’ll get pretty chilly again tonight.”

Obviously a fire would have to be the only thing keeping them warm tonight. “I’m going to head into the kitchen then, whip up something grand.”

He pushed away from the wall and walked out of the room. “There’s a fire extinguisher by the front door.”

“Very funny.”

No flames licked at the cabin door when Dan returned with the wood, but there sure was a lot of smoke.

Drifting out of the kitchen window was a dark cloud, accompanied by the sound of coughing. Without taking the time to put his shirt back on, Dan dropped the kindling and rushed into the cabin.

Still dressed in his sweats, the woman stood at the stove fanning smoke away from two cast-iron pans.

He was at her side in seconds. “What happened here?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, frowned. “You’re going to be pleased.”

“What does that mean?”

“You were right.” Shaking her head woefully, she added, “I must not know how to cook.”

She turned and stared up at him with those violet orbs. She looked so pathetic he couldn’t stop himself from chuckling.

“Why are you laughing?” she demanded, turning back and pointing at the pans. “Look at these eggs. Gray as the ashes in the fireplace. And look at this.”

He glanced over her shoulder. Thin black strips of burnt something gaped up at him, still smoking. “What exactly was that?”

“Bacon.”

“Seriously?”

“Of course I’m being serious!”

“Well, it doesn’t look all that bad,” he lied.

“Really?” She turned again to look at him, a shadow of hope crossing her eyes.

“Really.”

“Not so bad you might want to try some?”

That’s what a guy got for being nice. Reminded him of the time Josh, one of his foster brothers had begged him to try a taco at a greasy local restaurant. Josh had just loved the place, could eat there every day. He’d pleaded, made offers of marbles, action figures—for two whole days. The kid could’ve been a top-notch hostage negotiator. But as it was, the other side of the law had offered Josh a better deal.

Anyway, a seven-year-old Dan had gone and been the boy’s taste tester. Dan’s stomach lurched in remembrance. That beef taco had caused him to worship the porcelain god for three whole days.

But that had been old, maybe even contaminated food. What Angel had here was just charred. Hell, if he could survive seventeen hours in a truck with Rank Ron Hunnicutt waiting on a fugitive, this’d be a walk in the park.

He grabbed a fork, scooped up a bit of the goopy, gray eggs and took a taste. Actually, it was a crunch.

He nearly choked on a shell, but covered pretty quickly. Or so he thought.

“Not bad, Angel.”

But she was no fool. Her eyes grew liquid and weary. “I’m sorry. Excuse me. I’m just going to get a breath of fresh air.”

“Angel?”

She didn’t answer him. She was out the door.

“Wait a sec.”

Shoulders straight, she walked even quicker, down the deck steps and onto the dirt pathway, pine needles crunching under her feet. He caught up with her next to a massive pine.

“Stop.” He made his tone cop firm.

This time she did. She turned around, tears spilling down her cheeks. “For what?”

His gut tightened as he looked at her, in pain, her cheeks flushed, hands scrunched into fists at her sides. He hadn’t seen a woman crying in a while, unless it was some strung-out fugitive who needed a fix.

Even as a kid, tears were few. Back in the foster home, crying wasn’t permitted. If you wanted to get away with it, you had to do it at night, silently, in your bed.

He reached out, wiped a duo of tears off her upper lip. “The eggs are no big deal, Angel.”

“They are to me.”

“Everyone screws up sometimes.”

“Even you?”

“All the time.”

Her gaze fell. “It’s not just the breakfast.”

He stepped closer, slipped a finger under her chin and lifted her gaze to his once again. “What is it then?”

Under the shelter of the pine, where strips of warm sunlight blasted through the heavily scented branches like white rocket fuel, she told him. “It’s my memory. I’m really scared, Dan.”

“That’s completely understandable.”

“The world feels entirely too large right now.” Her gaze implored him to understand or to comfort her or to offer her answers, or all three. “What if I never remember?”

“Come here, Angel.” Better judgment aside, he pulled her against him, held her tight, breathing in the clean, sweet scent of her. He’d never been the soothing type. But the lady needed it.

She let her head fall against his chest, sighed at the easy strokes he applied to her back. He wanted to tell her not to make such sounds, wanted to warn her not to press any closer. But instead he uttered a fool’s promise, “We’ll find out who you are. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

She glanced up, eyes wide. “Promise?”

Dan’s chest felt as if it would burst right open. He didn’t want to owe anyone anything. He didn’t want to be responsible for anyone, for protecting anyone, for championing anyone.

A promise. Did she even know what she was asking?

Of course she didn’t.

As she looked up at him, waiting, her lips parted, he fought the need that stabbed at him. He ached to taste her, was almost ready to tell himself that it would be in the spirit of comfort, anything. Never in his life had he wanted anything more.

He lowered his head, then stopped, his mouth inches from hers, his need warring with his demons from the past.

If he was going to help her, protect her, physical contact was out of the question. Had to be.

Her tongue darted out, wet her lower lip.

He watched, his body tense.

Then she tilted her chin up, an invitation to paradise.

He hauled her back against him and muttered into her hair, “I promise.”

Even as the barn’s wall clock struck nine that night, the intimacy of the day still lingered between them. Angel could feel it, in the way Dan watched her as she worked in the stable, in the telling silence earlier at dinner, in the heat she could sense every time he was near.

Her mind reflected back to the only past it could claim. A moment under a magnificent sun-kissed pine, where Dan had held her close, his mouth just a whisper away, ready to kiss her. But hadn’t.

Why hadn’t he? she couldn’t help but wonder. Was it her memory loss that had made him pause? Or was it something more. Was it that hurt and unquenched need she saw when she looked deep into his eyes?

“That hay goes in his feeding trough.”

Angel started, almost let the pitchfork in her hand fall to the floor of Rancon’s stall. “Sorry.”

Dan nodded in the direction of his horse, amusement behind his eyes. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

Turning to the beautiful stallion, she gave him a pleading smile. “So sorry, Rancon.”

The horse whinnied and his ears perked up. Angel dropped the late-night snack within his reach.

“He forgives you,” Dan said, patting the horse on the flank. “This time.”

Her smile turned to laughter. “I’m so glad.”

After Dan gave the horse a quick brushing, he and Angel walked back to the cabin together under a sky of diamonds. A decided chill hovered in the air, just as Dan had predicted. And while he built a fire in the homey little cabin, Angel wondered if his other prediction, his silent prediction, might come true as well.

Would the fire be the only thing keeping them warm tonight?

When she came out into the living room, Dan was setting up his bed for the night. She let him go about his business, though it wasn’t all that late, and walked over, snooped at the small bookshelf that sat to the right of the fireplace. Mysteries, some children’s books. Then she stopped.

On top of the bookshelf sat a rather thick tome with a strip of yellow paper marking the reader’s place: The Grapes of Wrath.

She picked it up, turned to Dan. “What is this?”

Glancing over his shoulder, he squinted. “That would be a book.”

“I know it’s a book,” she said on a chuckle, walking over to him. “Is it yours?”

He stopped with the sheets and pillow, took the book from her. “Could be.”

Hands on hips, she asked, “Why can’t I get a straight answer from you?”

“Can I say something like, ‘because’?”

“No.”

“How about, ‘That’s just the kind of guy I am’?”

“Is that the kind of guy you are?”

He didn’t say anything, just turned away, muttering, “The book is mine, all right?” And went back to his sheets and pillow.

Truth was, she didn’t know what kind of man he was. Of course, he’d rescued her, taken care of her, fed her. But who was he outside this cabin? Who was he in the world? And why wouldn’t he share that part of himself with her?

“Dan?”

“Yes?”

“How do I know that you’re a good guy and not a bad guy?”

A pause, then, “You don’t.”

“And neither do you, really, do you?”

He glanced over his shoulder, mouth thin, caution signals flashing in his dark eyes. “I think I put too much vinegar in that salad.”

Her resolve weakened a touch under that stare, but she stood firm. “No, I think you put in just enough.”

“Isn’t it your bedtime, Angel?”

She strode past him, took a seat on the couch. “Not yet.”

“You’re sitting on my bed.”

“So I am.” She patted the couch beside her, hoping she wasn’t being too bold. “How about you read a little?”

“Come again?”

“Read a little. Out loud.”

“Hell, no.”

“Please, Dan.”

“No.”

“I really need a distraction tonight.”

Dan stared down into those liquid pools of violet and felt himself frown. A distraction. Was she kidding? He crushed the down pillow he held in his fist. If Angel really needed something like that, he could show her a few other methods of distraction.

But he wasn’t giving out lessons to a woman like her, a woman with no memory, a woman who unnerved him more than the first day of police academy.

He dropped down beside her, snatched the book from her hand. Reading was a helluva lot safer way to educate her, that was sure. “If you tell anyone about this—”

She grinned. “Who am I going to tell?”

“I’m not kidding.”

“All right. Cross my heart.”

Like a wolf with a gazelle in sight, he watched her trace the first half of the X across her breast with her fingertip, then switch angles and trace down the slope of the opposite breast. Hunger flooded his senses. Hunger and tempting questions. What would her skin taste like? The sweet weight of her breast? What would it feel like to have her nipple bead against his palm?