"No."
"You have to use your breathing if you want to relax completely."
"Impossible."
"Why?"
"Just take my word for it."
"Would a glass of wine help?"
"I don't drink wine." He paused before he spoke again. "There's only one thing that would help."
"What is it?"
"A cold shower."
"That doesn't sound relaxing."
He laughed again, but he didn't sound amused. "Well, there is one other thing I've been sitting here thinking about."
"What?" she asked although she knew.
His words were low and husky when he said, "Never mind. It involves both of us naked, and that can't happen."
Of course she knew it couldn't. They were complete opposites. He upset her universal balance. She wanted a man of enlightenment. He was as enlightened as a caveman. He thought she was crazy, and maybe she was. Less than a week ago, she'd thought he was a stalker; now he sat in her living room while she oiled his body as if he were a Chippendale dancer. Maybe she was crazy. Still she asked, "Why?"
"You're my informant."
Which wasn't a good reason as far as she was concerned. The informant's agreement she'd signed was a piece of paper. A piece of paper that couldn't dictate desire. Now, the fact that they were two totally different people, with totally different beliefs, should have been a very good reason for them to avoid the huge mistake of falling in bed together.
But as she watched the glow of firelight flicker across his smooth back, their differences didn't seem to matter all that much. The movement of her hands turned fluid and soothing and sensual. Joe upset her balance so much that she forgot all about keeping her touch impersonal. She clipped her fingers into the warmed oil, and her touch grew feather light as she caressed his spine. "Bring your awareness into your solar plexus and abdomen. Take a deep breath, then let it go."
She closed her eyes and let her hands slide over the supple contours of his lower back. Then she lightly ran the tips of her fingers up his spine. He shivered even as his muscles bunched beneath his tight, hot skin, and she fanned her thumbs across his smooth flesh. Suddenly, she had an overwhelming urge to moan or sigh or lean forward and sink her teeth into him. "Bring your awareness into your groin."
"Too late." He stood and turned to face her. "It's already there."
She looked up into his heavy-lidded eyes and the curve of his mouth. A bead of sweat slid down his cheek and jaw, down the side of his neck, and settled in the hollow of his tan throat. She lifted her hands and placed them on his flat abdomen. Her thumbs stroked the line of dark hair circling his navel.
Her gaze lowered to his waist and the unmistakable swell of his erection. Her fingers curled against his belly, and her throat felt dry. She licked her lips, and her gaze drifted lower to the scar on his thigh just visible through the split in the beach towel.
"Sit down, Joe," she ordered and pushed until his behind hit the seat. The towel rode up his right thigh, revealing the bottom edge of a pair of black boxers. "Is this where you were shot?" she asked as she knelt between his knees.
"Yes."
She dipped her thumbs into the oil, then circled them over the scar. "Does it still hurt?"
"No. At least not like it used to," he said, his voice rough.
The thought of such violence broke her heart, and she gazed up into his face. "Who did this to you?"
Looking down at her through lowered lids, he waited so long to answer that she didn't think he would. "An informant named Robby Martin. You probably heard about it It was in all the newspapers about a year ago."
The name sounded familiar, and it took her a moment to remember. Then a picture of a young blond kid flashed across her memory. The story had been news for a long time. The name of the undercover detective who'd fired the fatal shot had never been mentioned, and she'd forgotten anyone but Robby had been shot. "That was you?"
Again he waited before he answered, "Yes."
Slowly, she slid her thumbs up and down his thick scar and added a little pressure. She remembered it so well, because just like everyone else in the city, she'd talked about it with friends, and she'd wondered if Boise didn't have a few trigger-happy cops running around shooting young men for nothing more than smoking a little pot. "I'm sorry."
"Why? Why would you be sorry?"
"I'm sorry you were forced to do something like that."
"I was doing my job," he said, a hard edge punctuating his words.
"I know." She gently sank her fingertips into his thigh muscles. "I'm sorry you were hurt."
"You don't believe I'm trigger happy?"
She shook her head. "I don't believe you're reckless, or that you'd take someone's life unless you weren't given a choice."
"Maybe I'm as cold-blooded as the papers said. How do you know?"
She answered what she knew to be true in her heart. "Because I know your soul, Joe Shanahan."
Joe looked into her clear green eyes, and he almost believed she could see inside him and know something he didn't know with absolute certainty.
She licked her lips, and he watched the tip of her tongue slide to the corner of her mouth. Then she did something that stopped his heart and sent pure lust slamming into his groin. She bent her head and kissed his thigh.
"I know you're a good man."
His breath caught in his throat, and he wondered if she'd still think he was a "good man" if he asked her to move her mouth a little north and kiss his other, bigger, owie. He stared down at the top of her head, but just as he worked up a real good fantasy involving her face in his lap, she looked up and ruined it. She gazed at him as if she really could look inside his soul. As if she saw a better man than he knew he was.
Joe jumped to his feet and turned his back on her. "You don't know shit," he said as he moved to the fireplace and grasped the mantel.
"Maybe I liked kicking down doors and using my body as a battering ram."
"Oh, I don't doubt that." She came to stand beside him, then she added, "You're a physical guy. What I doubt is that you had a choice."
He glanced across his shoulder at her, then turned to gaze at the little candles burning on the mantel. "I had a choice all right, I didn't have to chase a drug dealer down a dark alley. But I'm a cop, that's what I do. I chase the bad guys, and once I'm committed to something, I see it through. And believe me, I was committed to bringing Robby in." He wanted to shock her. Shut her up. Wipe that look from her eyes. "I was royally pissed off at him. He was my informant, and he'd double-crossed me, and I wanted to get my hands on him." He glanced at her again, but she didn't look shocked. She was supposed to be a pacifist. She was supposed to hate men like him. She wasn't supposed to look at him as if she felt sorry for him, for God's sake.
"I saw the burst of fire from Robby's gun," he continued, "and I emptied my clip into his chest before I even knew I'd drawn my weapon. I didn't need to see him to know I'd hit him. Once you hear something like that, you know what it is. And you never forget. Later, I found out that I'd killed him before he'd even hit the ground. And I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about that. Sometimes I feel like shit, and others I'm just damn glad I was the better shot.
"It's a hell of a thing to know you've taken away all a man is and all he'll ever be." He pushed away from the mantel. "Maybe I was out of control."
"I doubt you've ever been that out of control."
She was wrong. Somehow, she'd gotten him to tell her more about the shooting than he'd told anyone else. All she'd had to do was look up at him through those big eyes like she really believed in him, and he'd babbled like an idiot. Well, he was through talking. For the past half hour, he'd sat on that uncomfortable chair, wondering how her breasts would fit in his palms. He had a raging erection urging him to grab one of those soft hands she'd rubbed all over him and shove it down his boxers so she could stroke something more interesting than his elbow.