“Nothing I can’t handle,” said Eve, flicking a glance at Jake, just visible beyond the doctor’s shoulder, leaning against the door in his familiar brooding stance-arms folded on his chest, one ankle crossing the other.
His examination completed, Dr. Shepherd stood back, folded his arms and frowned. “Don’t really like the idea of you wearin’ that thing all the time, young lady, especially since we’ve got no way a’knowin’ how long you’re gonna have to keep up this charade. Tell you what-I believe it’s time we started you on some physical therapy. What do you think? Three days a week? We can set it up somewhere out there on the island so you don’t have to come all this way. That way we can keep those neck muscles toned. Jake-that okay with you?” He turned to ask the question as Jake straightened and pushed away from the wall.
“Long as you don’t bring her along too fast,” he said in his expressionless, federal agent’s voice. He came, arms still folded, to stand beside the doctor. “Don’t want her graduating out of that collar before she’s done what she needs to do, do we?” His dark eyes studied her, heavy-lidded and surly.
“Unless…” he murmured, “you’ve changed your mind about staying out of your fiancé’s bed?”
“No,” she answered him, the word soft but emphatic. “I haven’t changed my mind-about anything.” And suddenly she found her gaze locked with his in a struggle she could neither fathom nor escape, a struggle some buried instinct evidently considered vital, because it focused on it all her physical and emotional energy, every sense and perception. Dr. Shepherd simply disappeared; the room around her faded into darkness and shadow. She saw nothing except Jake’s eyes, lit from within by that strange, angry glow; heard nothing except the sound of his breath, poised to form words that he didn’t utter. She felt nothing except the energy from his body that seemed to flow across the space between them like an electrical charge.
“Well, then, I’ll get on it-see what I can set up for you.” Dr. Shepherd’s jovial voice released her from the spell.
She jerked her head toward him and answered breathlessly, and with more than a small measure of guilt, “Yeah, okay, that’d be great. Thanks…” She returned his wave, waited until the door had closed behind him, then jerked herself half-around and took two steps away from the man who still stood gazing at her, motionless and silent.
The movement had been instinctive, an attempt to escape the attraction that still held her like the grip of some powerful magnet, but with that increased distance came, not release, but instead a jangled, off-balance feeling as if her entire being had been knocked off its axis. Her throat felt raw and raspy as she tried a careless laugh. “What the hell was that? You decided not to trust me?”
Jake made a soft, hissing sound. “It’s got nothing to do with you. It’s Cisneros I don’t trust.”
“Yeah, right,” Eve muttered without turning. She lowered her voice an octave, mimicking his cynical tone. “‘So, you’ve changed your mind about staying out of your fiancé’s bed?”’
“Your fiancé can be very persuasive.”
Something shivered through her, though she couldn’t have said whether it was anger, hurt or fear-or perhaps a little of all three. “Please,” she said, throwing him a sharp, bitter look, “give me some credit.”
Silence thundered between them. But if she’d expected-hoped for-an apology, none came. Instead, after a long pause, he abruptly asked, “Neck bothering you?”
She realized only then that she’d been rubbing it. Still royally miffed, she waved her hand and said coldly, “A bit of a crick-it’s nothing I can’t-”
“-handle… yeah, I know.” There was an odd thickness to his growl that perhaps should have warned her, but didn’t.
So it was with a jarring sense of unreality that she felt the warm weight of his hands on her shoulders. So unexpected, it was-and so unexpected a pleasure-that her entire body responded from the top of her head to the tips of her toes with an all-over tingling that was like the hot-cold prick of sparklers on a sultry Fourth of July. And at the same time she could feel the warmth melting into her shoulders and spreading through her insides, and it was like being a little girl and drinking hot cocoa on a cold frosty morning.
“Relax, Waskowitz.” His voice, raspy and soothing as a cat’s purr, stirred the air near her ear.
Relax? Redfield, if I were any more relaxed, you’d have to pick me up off the floor.
But that was only her body. Her mind was sputtering like a bad electrical connection, alternating between dead blankness and shooting out useless sparks. What’s this, what’s this? Oh…that feels good… Don’t react-don’t make a fool of yourself! It’s not personal-remember that. This is his job…his job…
But her body wasn’t listening. Jake’s fingers were pressing into her cramped trapezius muscles, his thumbs stroking upward along the sides of her spinal column and pushing under her hair to probe the base of her skull… and her head dropped forward, her eyelids drooped, her knees grew weak and her nipples shivered and hardened.
“You’re too high,” he complained, and Eve blamed her own fuzzy-headedness for the fact that his voice seemed slurred and thickened. “I can’t reach you. Here-lie down.” He patted the table with one hand while he guided her to it with the other.
Oh, how she wanted to say something clever and witty, fire off some wisecrack double entendre that would show him how sophisticated and cool she was. Unfortunately, her mind was a blank; if he’d led her to a bed of fire ants and poison ivy, she’d have laid herself sweetly down. She thought, And he’s worried about Sonny’s powers of persuasion?
The paper-covered table was cool under her cheek. But her body felt trembly and hot, and her heart was beating so hard, she could feel it pushing against the table’s resilient surface. He must feel that, she thought, panic-stricken. He must!
She couldn’t let the silence go on. She had to think of something to say, something that wouldn’t humiliate her…
So she groaned, laughing a little, and said, “Oh, that does feel good.” That seemed safe enough. Anyone would say it. Wouldn’t they?
There was no answer from Jake-not in words. But his fingers played over her back as if he were a musician and she his instrument, lightly stroking the delicate cords of her neck, pressing deep into the thicker muscle along her spine, gentling the thin, ticklish places over her ribs and finding with unerring precision the sensitive pressure spots hidden among the complex bones of her shoulders.
Her mind wandered… She remembered the music she’d heard playing in Jake’s apartment that first crazy night, and thought of the old blues guitar man she’d interviewed for the music piece…rheumy-eyed and toothless, he’d been, wasted by a life of booze and poverty. But it had been his hands the camera had homed in on, and it was his hands she saw now in her mind’s eye, caressing the strings of that old acoustic guitar as if they were the body of a beautiful woman…
“Where’d you learn to do that?” she asked weakly.
Jake grunted. “Doesn’t take a rocket scientist.”
No, she thought, just an extraordinarily gentle man. She’d been given massages before, by men who thought they were being gentle. Probably they’d thought they were being seductive, too, but invariably they’d be too rough, press too hard, and instead of relaxing, she’d feel the reflexive urge to tense her muscles to protect her tender places. Usually she’d been relieved when they’d abandoned the attempt at subtle seduction and switched to the more direct approach. But never before in her life could she remember feeling like this in a man’s hands-so relaxed, so pampered, so utterly and completely safe. And at the same time-ridiculous, for a woman just turned forty-three-so dreadfully, terrifyingly vulnerable. It was a contradiction she couldn’t begin to unravel.