by Kylie Brant
Michele had lost her tenuous grip on logic. Under his compelling tutelage their tongues dueled intimately. She had never been kissed like this before, but she reveled in the unashamedly sensual sensation. Connor’s chest came down closer to hers, and she pulled at his shoulders, mutely pleading for a firmer contact. He obliged at the same time that she became aware of his hand sweeping beneath her slip and touching her bare thigh where her nylons ended.
They both reacted as if they had been scalded, she jerking away and Connor sitting upright. He raised one shaking hand to rake through the tousled hair that only minutes ago her hands had been buried in. His chest heaved in and out in gigantic breaths as he struggled for control. Looking at Michele sprawled wantonly half under him almost made him lose what little grip he had on his straining libido.
Michele stared up at Connor, stunned at his sudden departure. Gradually, passion cleared from her mind, and she became aware of the tight control he was trying to maintain. Her gaze dropped to their bodies, and she gasped as she noticed her state of dishabille. Their legs were still tangled intimately, and one smooth thigh was almost totally exposed. Her hand moved quickly to pull her slip down to a more discreet level. At the same time Connor reached to smooth it down for her, and their hands met, scorching at the simple contact.
Connor mentally cursed and extricated his body from hers, turning his back as she sat up and arranged her disheveled clothing. When he turned back to her, Michele was standing, face averted. “I’ll be right back,” she murmured. She quickly walked to her bedroom for a robe, which she slipped on quickly. Afraid that Connor would simply come after her if she was gone too long, she reentered the living room. He was standing where she had left him, staring hard at her.
Michele swallowed, one hand automatically going to the vee neckline of the robe to close it more securely. She easily read the expression that crossed his face at her belated modesty and blushed.
“You should go,” she told him, her voice soft but firm.
Connor looked at her steadily. Far from donning her ice princess mask as he’d half feared, half hoped for, she looked far too vulnerable. The evidence of their passion was apparent in her kiss-swollen lips and the faint red marks on her neck, where his evening whiskers had abraded.
She flushed at the direction of his gaze and walked jerkily to the hallway, hoping that he would take the hint and leave gracefully. And indeed, it seemed as though he was going to take her cue at first. He followed her, but he didn’t go out the door. Instead, he watched as she backed up against the wall rather than get too close to him. A week—hell, an hour ago he would have taken that backing away as an affront, interpreting it as an unwillingness to touch a man she thought beneath her. But now he knew better. A few minutes ago she had not only been touching him, she’d been writhing under his touch. She’d invited it. And he realized her withdrawal was a sign of her unwillingness for any contact that would reignite the embers of their passion. He knew he was correct, because he felt the same damn way.
He watched her fidgeting soberly. “Don’t look so scared. This doesn’t have to mean anything. You needed comforting, and I was here. We stopped. It’s not the end of the world.”
“You couldn’t begin to understand,” Michele muttered. “I can’t believe I let you . . . of all people . . . you don’t even trust me!”
She saw the truth of her words sap the mockery from his face. The familiar guardedness returned to his expression. Even though she had known the truth, hurt slammed into her at having it verified. She wrapped her arms around herself and leaned her head wearily against the wall. “Please leave.”
Connor made no movement toward the door. “I came over here tonight to tell you about the lab results.”
Michele put one hand to her head, where her headache was threatening to return full force. “Not tonight, Connor,” she pleaded. “No more tonight.”
He made a sudden decision. “You’re right,” he agreed and reached in front of her to lock the door.
“What are you . . . ?”
He turned and swept her up in his arms, then followed the path to her bedroom that he had seen her take earlier. “I’m putting you to bed,” he announced flatly. He laid her down in the middle of her brass bed but didn’t spare more than a glance for the white wicker furniture and soft pastels. “You need sleep. Go ahead,” he invited as he swept her under the covers.”I’ll stay tonight. At least until you’re asleep. You shouldn’t be left alone right now.”
Michele sputtered at his audacity. “I’ve told you . . .”
“And I’ve told you,” he stated imperturbably. His light green eyes were full of promise. “If you want to try and throw me out, this could end up in a wrestling match. And while I certainly wouldn’t mind, I was under the impression that you didn’t crave my touch.”
Michele grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to her neck, glaring impotently at him.
“That’s the way,” he said mockingly. He sat down in a wicker rocker near her bed. “Nighty-night, Michele.”
Miraculously, she slept soundly, deeply, all night.
Chapter 5
Michele awoke the next morning without the lingering effects of a poor night’s sleep that usually accompanied one of her dreams. Her head had the usual muzziness, though, that attested to the headache she’d battled all night.
As she remembered the events of last night, her eyes jerked to the wicker rocker near her bed, where she had last seen Connor. It was empty, nothing suggesting that just hours ago it had been occupied by the most enigmatic man she had ever met. Michele released a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. He must have left after she’d fallen asleep. She was profoundly grateful that she didn’t have to face him this morning.
A glance at the alarm clock told her that she had plenty of time before she was due at the office, so she planned a leisurely bath to soak last night’s trauma away.
As she headed to the bathroom she reflected that more than a little of that trauma was due to Lieutenant Connor McLain’s unexpected appearance. What a strange man, she mused, so antagonistic and yet so inexplicably gentle when she had needed someone last night. He had certainly proven to be a mass of contradictions.
As Michele reached for the bathroom door, it opened inward suddenly and she found herself unexpectedly facing the mass of contradictions himself. Almost all of him, in fact.
Even as she stood, stupefied, her gaze wandered over his broad shoulders and well-developed biceps, down his wide bare chest, covered with whorls of hair several shades darker than that on his head. It narrowed at his waist and arrowed suggestively below the knot in his towel.
His towel! Her eyes bounced back up to his face. He had spent the night here. Her shock must have been apparent, because his face, his freshly shaven face, she noted unconsciously, took on a quizzical look. “You seem better this morning,” he noted, “although somewhat surprised to see me. I slept on the couch last night. I hope that’s okay.”
She couldn’t very well say otherwise, after all he’d done for her, so she responded stiffly, “That’s fine.”
Connor watched the expressions flit across her face and would have smiled if he hadn’t had such a lousy night’s sleep. There was shock there, then embarrassment and unease. Unfortunately, her couch had not been the most comfortable of beds, made even less so by his body’s magnificent memory of who lay sleeping only steps away. Some of his ill temper prompted him to gibe, “I used a spare toothbrush and razor you had. However, I had to make do with the shaving cream in the shower.”
Michele looked at him, taken aback. He had certainly made himself at home.
Connor returned her look soberly. “It was pink,” he said in a pained tone.
Michele’s mouth turned up slightly. This tough Philadelphia police detective with his face covered with pink foam would have been a worthwhile sight. Her smile quickly flickered away, however, as she was reminded that seeing him clad in only a towel was proving very worthwhile, too.
“Do you mind?”
Michele’s mind went blank for a moment before she became aware that she was blocking his exit from the bathroom.
“Excuse me.” She stood aside and let him pass, then followed him into the living room mindlessly, still wondering at his continued presence in her house. What was the usual protocol in a situation like this? she wondered wildly. Should she fix him breakfast?
Connor looked up to find Michele standing nearby, still staring at him. With a casual shrug, one hand went to the knot in his towel. He didn’t have time to play games this morning; he was due at work. If the lady was interested in seeing if he was wearing his gun, he’d oblige her.
Her shocked gasp and quickly turned back told him that she wasn’t interested in that after all. Connor chuckled aloud as she marched stiffly into the small kitchen and started the coffeemaker.
As Michele’s ears attuned themselves to the subtle sounds of him dressing, she hurriedly opened cupboards and took out two coffee mugs. She slammed them on the counter with more force than was necessary.
Having him here in her apartment this morning was too intimate, she decided. As intimate as what had almost happened last night. It was as if they had gone through with what had begun between them and were engaged in an awkward morning-after scene.
She poured the coffee when it was ready and turned to find Connor standing a few feet away, regarding her fixedly. He was just finishing buckling his belt, and Michele flushed. She thrust a steaming mug toward him. “I hope black is okay.”
“It’s fine.”
Unable to stay still beneath his intent gaze, she headed to the refrigerator. “I think I have some eggs. I could fix you an omelet.”
“Don’t bother.” At his abrupt response Michele turned to regard him quizzically. He sipped cautiously from the mug before going on. “Don’t you think that would be straining the thin veneer of civility between us just a little too far?”
Michele’s chin went up. “Yours has apparently snapped already.”
“I have to be at work in about twenty minutes, so I’m going to have to leave right away.” He drained his cup, wincing as the hot liquid scorched a passage down his throat. Then he put the mug down and walked back to her living room, grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. She followed him, still silent.
When he reached the door, Connor turned back. “Look, I need to talk to you about those lab results. I’ve got a full day scheduled, but I could probably break around six. Do you think you could come by headquarters about then?”
Michele was thankful she had a reason to say no. “I have late appointments tonight. I won’t be done until seven-thirty or so.”
Rather than giving up as she had hoped, he nodded curtly. “I’ll meet you at eight, then. We can grab something to eat at the same time. Do you know Ricardo’s?”
Michele nodded bemusedly at the name of a well-known Mexican restaurant.
“See you there at eight.” And with that he walked out the door.
Michele stood stupefied for several moments before closing the door slowly. What had just happened here? Far from putting him off as she had hoped, she’d just agreed to meet him later. For supper, for heaven’s sake. As if she could swallow a thing sitting across from that man.
Suddenly noticing the time, she realized she had to hurry to get to work. In the end she settled for a quick shower rather than the leisurely bath she had counted on. And that, too, she blamed on Connor McLain.
* * *
She was out of breath when she entered Psychological Associates. Julie was already typing and called out a cheerful greeting when Michele entered.
“Hi, I was just about to call and see if you were sick.”
Michele flushed when she thought about what would have happened if someone had called an hour earlier. She wouldn’t trust Connor McLain not to have answered her phone!
“I’m not late for the first client, am I?”
“Silly question,” retorted Julie, wheeling her chair around expertly to flip open the appointment book. “I’m so used to you beating me here, though, that it seemed odd for me to open the office without you. Dr. Ryan has been looking for you already.”
Before Michele had a chance to answer, the door opened and James came in. “Michele,” he greeted her in his cultured voice. “I was hoping to schedule some time today to consult with you on the Howard boy. Do you have anything open?”
Michele looked questioningly at Julie, who pursed her lips as she perused the calendar. “It doesn’t look like it. You have that luncheon at eleven-thirty to address the PTA. That will last until midafternoon. Then we have you scheduled until seven-thirty.”
“Excellent,” James said heartily. “We could have a late dinner. If that’s all right with you, of course?” Michele politely.
She smiled weakly. This wasn’t the first time she had gotten the uneasy feeling that James would like them to be more than working associates. Somehow their working dinners and lunches rarely turned out to be such. Usually by the time they arrived at the restaurant James no longer wished to discuss business.
She briefly contemplated calling and leaving a message for Connor, canceling, but she quickly decided against that. She couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t come here again to talk to her, and she wanted to avoid that at all costs. Finally she shook her head, and when she spoke, her voice was regretful. “I’m sorry, James, I already have plans for dinner. Perhaps tomorrow?” She looked at Julie, who busily searched for free time during the next day.
“All right,” James said graciously. He studied her for a moment. “A date tonight, Michele?”
She hoped her face didn’t give her away. By no stretch of the imagination could this meeting with Connor qualify as a date. “Not at all.” She laughed nervously. “Just an acquaintance. We have some things to discuss.”
James nodded and told Julie to call him with the list of times for tomorrow and left the office.
Michele met Julie’s quizzical look but said, “Oh, look at the time. Have you pulled the first file for me?” Julie handed her the file before she even finished speaking.
“Thanks.” Michele stepped into her office and closed the door on the other woman’s bemused gaze. Though she was usually thankful that she had such a super secretary, right now she would be grateful to have one who was a little less observant.
* * *
Connor hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told Michele he had a full day planned. With some leads finally coming in on the investigation he was swamped with work. But he made time during the day to knock on the door of Bruce Casel, the police psychologist.
Bruce’s face when he saw Connor was comical. “Lieutenant . . .” His voice was wary when he stood to greet Connor. “I’m . . . surprised to see you here, to say the least. No one told me you had been involved in a shooting.”
Connor waved him back to his seat and sat down in a chair in front of the psychologist’s desk. “I haven’t been. That’s not why I’m here.” He stopped then, mentally weighing his words. He wasn’t sure how best to ask Bruce what he wanted to know, especially since the last time they parted it hadn’t been congenial—at least, not on Connor’s part.
Bruce’s wide face expressed confusion. “Then exactly why are you here, Lieutenant?”
What the hell. He might as well just come right out and ask him about Michele. He was no good at subterfuge. “I came for some information. I’m hoping you can help me.” He stopped then.
“You need information from me?” Bruce’s tone was pleased. “About a case? What can I do for you?”
“Actually, it’s a little complicated. How much do you know about . . .” Connor hesitated, unsure how to proceed. “Psychics, I guess you’d call them”
“You mean people who claim extrasensory powers?” Bruce waited for Connor’s nod before going on. “Actually, I had a little experience with them when I was a grad student. I worked for a short time in the parapsychology laboratory at Duke Un
iversity. What sort of information are you looking for?”
“Well, what’s your opinion? Is it all a scam? Hocus-pocus?”
“That’s certainly the opinion of much of the scientific community.”
Connor didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved.
“However,” the psychologist continued, “there are some very renowned scientists who do believe that some people have such powers. Many well-known universities have departments researching the phenomenon. The field of parapsychology is fully recognized by some and regarded by others as having possibilities.”
“How about you?” pressed Connor. “What do you think?”
Bruce took off his horn-rimmed glasses and polished them reflectively before answering. “Well, I’m not really sure. I’d like to say that I know without any doubt that such things can’t exist.” He replaced his glasses and returned Connor’s impatient gaze imperturbably, “But I saw a few things at the university that defied easy explanation. I guess I feel that there are indeed people—relatively few people, but some—who do have inexplicable powers of perception.” He shrugged. “Why do you ask?”
He proceeded to give Bruce a brief description of how Michele had come to them with information, and her story of how she’d gotten it. “I know it sounds nuts—believe me, I agree—but she did have some information she shouldn’t have had any way of knowing.”
“How often does she have these dreams?”
Connor felt hunted. “How the hell should I know? She just had another last night, and whatever it was, it was real to her, you know what I mean? Her pulse was pounding, her heart was racing and she was shaking like a leaf afterward.”
“Shock, I’d guess,” mused Bruce, and Connor nodded. The psychologist watched Connor curiously. “How many other times have you witnessed this happening to her?”
“None. Why would I? I just went over there to give her some information. It was official police business.”
