“Let me, Dix.”
And before I could utter a word in protest (funny, I’m not usually such a slow talker), Dylan had his hands on my neck. “Whoa!” he said. “You’re tense.”
Well, duh. “Just … long, hard day, Dylan.”
He grinned. “Lucky for you, a master masseuse from the Bombay Spa is here.”
I arched an eyebrow. The mental picture of me beneath the white sheet, naked on the massage table flashed through my mind. I felt the heat rising in my cheeks, and lowering in other places. “And here I thought that diploma from the Cordick School was a fake.”
“It’s Cornick School. Not dick.”
“Of course.”
“And yeah, it’s a fake, but I’m damn good with my hands anyway. So let me get that tension out.”
“Oh well, no need. I’m just—”
He cocked his head. “Do I make you nervous, Dix?”
I snorted. “Of course not.”
Technically it wasn’t a lie. He didn’t make me axe-murderer nervous.
“Then just let me help you here.”
Why not? Dylan had made it clear the other night when he’d jumped out of my bed that he wasn’t interested in me that way, hadn’t he? And surely, I didn’t have feelings here myself that I couldn’t handle. No way. Not hard-assed Dix Dodd.
I lay down on the bed, fully clothed. He turned down the light. And I felt the anticipation rise unchecked within me as the mattress depressed, then I felt his hands on my back once again. But this time, it was even more intimate. This time there was no pretense, no Elizabeth Bee in the corner. This time there was nothing to stop us. Except ourselves.
Careful, Dix. Remember the trouble last time you let yourself feel.
But even as I reproached myself, I knew … I could be here. I could drift into this feeling. Give into this feeling. If only—
Though his voice was low, I startled when Dylan spoke into the quiet, darkened room. “You know Dix, sometimes when you’re so busy looking for the bad guys all the time, you miss the good guys. You don’t always have to be on the defensive. You might be missing something pretty good here.”
Maybe it was his voice. Maybe it was his hands. But, holy hell, whatever it was it was working. I was melting under the touch of this man. And that did make me nervous, paling in comparison to any axe-murderer at the door.
“Dylan, I—”
“Just hear me out, Dix. The other night when I held you was…. I felt something and you felt it too. I know you did.”
He waited, and though I was sorely tempted to, I didn’t jump into that pause. I could feel his warmth — all of his warmth as he touched me gently. I could hear his breathing. Goddamn it, I wanted to be this close to this man. We were alone in the world just then — in the quiet of our room.
“Dix,” he continued, his voice deep and soft as it curled along my spine. He was leaning down toward me. Leaning in to kiss me, I knew. “I was worried about you today. More than I knew I could be. And I knew—”
We both swore when the phone rang into the room.
Me, because that loud, shrill ring startled me. Dylan because when I startled, I jumped and smacked him in the face with the back of my head.
Oh shit!
Even as I picked up the receiver I could see his bottom lip swelling up. I cringed and mouthed a ‘sorry’, but what exactly was I sorry for? Certainly for the growing boo-boo on his handsome face. But was I sorry the mood had been broken? Again? That the kiss had been, shot (or rather smacked) out of existence?
“Dix, Dix you there?”
“Oh … oh, sorry Mrs. P. You just caught me … caught me mid thought.”
I gave Dylan the ‘okay’ sign and he headed to the bathroom. I heard the water running and a sucked in ‘Ow!’ as he put a cloth to his lip.
“Well,” Mrs. P said. “I’ve got your supper ready. And Cal and Craig and I are just settling in for TV bingo. So if you want it hot and you want it before bingo rather than after — jackpot’s twelve hundred — you better come and get it now.”
“Will do Mrs. P.”
“Supper?” Dylan asked coming out of the bathroom. His lip wasn’t bleeding — anymore. But the little smooth bulge on the bottom of it would be there for a day or two. And as my eyes looked southward, that was the only thing bulging on Dylan Foreman now.
Way to break a mood, Dix. That’s me, Dix Dodd, ball buster, lip buster extraordinaire.
“Yep. Supper’s ready. I’ll just go down and get—”
“Let me, Dix.” His grin was self-mocking. “I could use a bit of a walk.”
He hipchecked open the door and backed/dipped his way out. That hidden door was a wonderful idea, but certainly not made with six foot four Dylan Foreman in mind.
I lay back on the bed when the door closed behind Dylan. The lights were still low but I threw one arm over my eyes anyway. I drew the other hand across the slightly rumpled sheets. What had just happened here? More importantly, what had almost just happened here? Saved by the bell?
Damn bell.
“Can you get the door, Dix?”
I jumped up when Dylan called and scooted across the room. He backed up when I shoved the door open. I stood in the dark hallway as with tray in hand Dylan moved around me.
“Leave it to Mrs. P.” He gazed appreciatively down at the tray as he walked forward. “Shaved roast on whole wheat. Grapes. Three different kinds of cheese. And for dessert, cookies. Looks like chocolate chip oatmeal. And they’re still warm.”
I was watching Dylan’s backside and Dylan apparently wasn’t watching at all, because as he tried to step through the door, he cracked his forehead on the top of the frame.
With a loud crash, he and the tray hit the floor.
“Holy shit!” I leaned down over him. “Dylan, are you all right? Are you … quick,” I said, remembering my first aid training from Girl Guides. “How many fingers am I holding up?” I held up a couple. He raised his head a little and squinted his eyes toward them.
“Dylan? Say something!”
He grinned, and put a hand to his forehead.
“Honey, I forgot to duck.”
He was fine. Well not fine-fine (there was a fair sized lump popping up dead-center on his forehead), but he wasn’t seriously injured if he was cracking jokes, calling me honey quoting Reagan. I helped him to the bed.
“You sure you’re all right?” I asked, picking up the wonderful supper Mrs. P had made us. The sandwiches were a lost cause, but the main part — the cookies — were still good. “I can get Mrs. P to—”
“I’m fine, Dix.”
The poor guy looked like he’d done battle with, well, me. Between the busted lip and the lump on his head, he was one sorry looking man.
Actually, we both were pretty sorry looking. Dylan with the lump on his head, me with … well, me with the murder wrap hanging over my head.
I thought we’d hit pay dirt when I’d found Jennifer’s journal. Clues had lain in there certainly, but answers? The answer?
I was missing something. It was niggling at me. Nagging. And it was right there — hanging just out of my reach. What was it? What was I missing here? I stood there with these thoughts twisting in my brain, staring unseeingly at Dylan.
“Is it bad, Dix?” He’d been studying my expression. And now raised a worried hand, and a careful one, to his forehead.
“Oh, sorry. I … I was thinking about the case.” Yes, I felt incredibly sheepish admitting that.”
“But how bad’s the lump on my head?” He patted some hair down over it, and in all seriousness asked. “Can you notice it?”
“Can I notice it? Dylan, it’s a doozie.” I laughed out loud.