While She Was Sleeping

by Diane Pershing

  “And to you,” she replied. Again she seemed to be keeping her distance. “I’m grateful, Nick, really I am, for helping me get through—” she waved a hand vaguely “—all of this. You’ve been very generous. I’ll be no more trouble to you after tomorrow.”

  Her words sent an arrow of unease through him. No. He wasn’t ready to hear about her leaving. “I have a suggestion. Let’s not talk about tomorrow. Let’s have a nice dinner and put that other stuff away for now. Agreed?”

  She gazed at him solemnly, her large eyes tawny in the glowing candlelight, but didn’t reply.

  “And,” he went on, “I’m sorry I lost my temper before. It had nothing to do with you.”

  Surprise, then a softening of her expression let him know he’d said the right thing. She touched her glass to his and nodded. “Apology accepted.”

  Whew. He wasn’t sure he could cope with any more polite, removed conversation.

  The feeling at the table turned cozier. He was starving, he realized, so he tore off a hunk of bread then dug into his salad. His taste buds rejoiced at the first bite. “Hey, this is delicious.”

  “It’s just salad.”

  “Yeah, but you’ve done something with it. What’s that tang in the dressing?”

  She shrugged modestly but he knew she was pleased. “A little olive juice. Tarragon on the croutons and some pine nuts.”

  “It’s really good.”

  “You have to stop complimenting me,” she said, but favored him with a small gratified smile. “I’ll get a swelled head.” She chewed thoughtfully, then cocked her head. “Listen, do you know any good jokes?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I feel like laughing. I need to laugh, Nick. Tell me a joke.”

  He scratched his head, but could come up with nothing but the usual sick, twisted cop humor. “Sorry, I wish I could.”

  “Oh, I know one. Let’s see. I have to make sure I say it right.” She took a moment to go over it in her head, then nodded. “Okay, here goes. What did the Zen Buddhist say to the hot-dog vendor?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “‘Make me One with everything.”’

  Clapping her hands like a child, Carly erupted in rich laughter; it was a full, no-holds-barred sound and it pleased him no end.

  He sat back and grinned at her. “Yeah, it’s a good one. And you have a great laugh. First time I’ve heard it. Okay, I remembered one—a female bartender told it to me today, and it’s only a little raunchy. Still, it’s the cleanest joke I know.”

  “Raunchy’s good,” she said eagerly. “I like raunchy.”

  “All right, then. This man and woman get married. On their wedding night, he finds out she’s a virgin. ‘How can that be?’ he asks her. ‘You’ve been married three times.’ ‘Well,’ she says, ‘my first husband was a philosopher—he just wanted to talk about it. My second husband was a photographer—he just wanted to look at it. My third husband was a stamp collector... and boy, do I miss that man.’”

  Carly’s eyes opened wide and her hand flew to her mouth, but she let out a whoop of laughter and was soon giggling helplessly. He chuckled right along with her.

  Who was this woman? Nick asked himself. This was a whole other Carly than the one he’d seen so far. In fact, his cop’s instinct told him this was probably closer to the real Carly—domestic by nature, good-humored. This was the woman beneath the tension and fear of her present predicament, the woman she’d have been if they’d met under other circumstances.

  Would he have been attracted to that Carly? he wondered. He gazed at her while she ate. Small bites, perfect manners, an occasional sip of wine. Her hair was pushed back behind her ears and she wore no makeup. But she didn’t really need any; her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed from cooking. There was a thin sheen of olive oil on her upper lip and when she ran her tongue over her mouth to lick it away, he felt his body stir with desire.

  She was still dressed in his oversize purple sweats, the sleeves pushed up above her elbows. The outline of her pert little breasts, unrestrained by a bra, was barely visible beneath the general bagginess of the clothing. Still, the memory of those breasts in his hands washed over him, as did the feel of her skin, smooth and silken, every part of her. His body hardened some more until he was forced to shift in his chair.

  Would he have been attracted to her if they’d met before her blackout? It really didn’t matter, because he was attracted to her now. Most definitely. Earlier, she’d made it clear she intended to sleep alone tonight—had she meant it? Because, sometime soon, he intended to taste her again.

  Carly couldn’t help noticing how Nick watched her, saw the masculine appraisal, even the hint of sexual hunger in his eyes. It sent a thrill of excitement all through her. She’d tried to keep her distance from him before, now she tried to fight down the pleasure she felt from his attention. Both attempts were doomed, and she’d just as well admit it.

  Maybe it was her current state of terrified limbo, but she grabbed on to Nick’s obvious approval as if it were a hand pulling her out of quicksand. It felt so good to be desired, to have her cooking praised, her joke laughed at. Did this attraction between them muddy the waters? Maybe. But right now, tonight, she wanted not to care. She wanted—needed—to suspend reality. Heaven knew she needed a break from it. How good it felt to have this beautiful man sitting across from her, not being tough and hard, but generous, easy, teasing her.

  They traded some more jokes and laughed. She drank a little more wine, but it didn’t make her tired. He praised the crispness of the fried potatoes, declared the steak perfection, ate most of the bread and most of her dinner, too. Continuing to bask in the glow of his compliments, she realized she’d been starved for this kind of attention her entire life, even though she hadn’t even been aware she’d been missing it.

  Something tightly wound up inside her loosened up. Maybe the wine helped, but it was okay to act more freely than usual. She didn’t feel shy tonight or hesitant to say what was on her mind. It was such a lovely change, she didn’t even want to question why it was happening.

  “Tell me about you, Nick,” she said. “I mean, you know a lot more about me than I do about you.”

  He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “What do you want to know?”

  “Age, where you were born. The usual.”

  He sat back in his chair, his hands crossed over his stomach. “I’ll be thirty-seven next month, was raised in Oxnard—that’s north of here, up the coast, joined the marines out of high school, came down here in my early twenties. For two or three years I did odd jobs, played beach volleyball, worked on my tan, shared a house with a bunch of guys, partied pretty constantly.” He grinned. “Basically, I was a burn, which was terrific, for a while. Then it got old. So I joined the force.”

  “Why?”

  She watched his face while he thought about that one for a bit. “At first, I think it was because it was something I thought I could do. I was a pretty tough kid, coming from the neighborhood I grew up in. I was used to being physical, had the military training, wanted a steady paycheck.”

  “That was at first, you said. Then what?”

  “Yeah, well—” He shrugged and she sensed he was less at ease. “Then I found I liked it. I know you’ll have a hard time accepting this, but I liked getting the bad guys.”

  “Why wouldn’t I accept that?”

  “In the car, you made it pretty clear you don’t trust cops. And, sure, there are some who are on a power trip—you get some violent types on the force, as you probably know, guys who like to use their muscle and their badges to get whatever they want.”

  She knew. Oh, yes, she knew.

  “But most of us aren’t like that,” he went on.

  “I know that, Nick,” she said quietly. His pride in his profession, his need to defend it made her realize just how much she’d allowed one man’s brutality to turn into a generalization. “Tell me what else you like about being a cop? Really. I’m interested.
”

  He spread his hands, then let them fall to the table. “It’s fun hanging out with other cops. I like, I don’t know, making a difference, I guess. Not a lot of difference, but some. A lost kid found, a wife-beater locked up, putting away some hood who’s selling nickel bags to fourth-graders. It makes the rest of it—the long hours, the cases we lose because some high-priced lawyer gets his client off—it makes those times bearable.” He scowled, obviously self-conscious. “I sound like some damned do-gooder.”

  “No, you sound dedicated, and that’s nice.”

  Nick wasn’t like her father at all, was he, Carly admitted to herself. They might both have worn the uniform, and Nick might be quick to anger the way her dad had been, but really, the two men were nothing alike in other ways. Underneath the gruff exterior, Nick had a heart and a conscience. It was such a relief to see it so clearly, she let out a huge contented breath.

  “What?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Nothing. I’m just glad you told me all this.” Resting an elbow on the table, she propped her chin in her hand. “So, am I being pushy? I might have had too much wine.”

  “Nah. You’re okay.”

  “Then tell me more. What kind of childhood did you have?”

  “You really want to know all this?”

  “Very much. It takes my mind off me.”

  He gave her a look that said he really wasn’t used to talking about himself this way, but if she insisted.... “It was okay,” he said. “My mother ran off when I was six, and it broke my dad’s heart.”

  “Oh.” Distressed, Carly put her hand over her chest. “How awful for you.”

  “Probably. But I don’t remember. Dad was okay, except when he drank. He didn’t beat me or anything, just cried a lot. Mr. Self-pity. Not a pretty sight. He’s still around, moved to Philadelphia to be with his brother. I talk to him on the phone once in a while.”

  He pushed himself back from table and stood up, stretching his arms to the side. “I’ve been sitting too long. I need to move. So, okay?” he asked hopefully. “Have I told you enough?”

  Not nearly enough, Carly thought and realized she wanted to cry. She was becoming maudlin, but how could she help it? There were layers and layers in this man; was he even aware of it?

  There was one more area she wanted to know about—oh how she wanted to know. The old Carly wouldn’t have dared ask; the one tonight dared. “I’m curious...”

  His hands were clasped over his head. “Yeah?”

  “I want to know about your marriage, but you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

  He chuckled, then let his arms drop. “Nah, it’s all right.” He walked over to the railing and leaned his elbows on it. Looking out on the night, he said, “Lenore was a cop groupie, loved men with guns. We met on the beach—I was in the volleyball championship and she was barely wearing a bikini. It was lust at first sight. I was twenty-six or so, but still a kid in a lot of ways.”

  Angling his head, he smiled cynically at her. “I believed her when she told me I was special, the only one.” He returned his attention to the night sky. “We married, bought a house, talked about having children, or I did, I guess. And then she decided I wasn’t fun anymore and found another cop to do her number on. She also cleaned me out financially—she’d been transferring funds from our savings account for months. I must have been putty in her hands, and she probably had a good laugh. It taught me a lot, though.”

  Carly rose from her chair and stood next to him at the railing, facing him. There were lights and some noise below them, but here, on Nick’s balcony, all seemed hushed, intimate. “What did it teach you?”

  His quick chuckle was self-mocking. “Protect your investments. Watch your back. Put away lust when making important decisions.”

  “And never trust a woman,” she added softly.

  A frown creased his forehead. “I guess it must sound that way, huh. I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s about not trusting. It’s more about...taking some time to see if they can be trusted.”

  “Have you reached a verdict on me yet?” The minute she said it, she realized she was only half kidding. She held her breath while she waited for his answer.

  Nick met her gaze unsmilingly. “I’ve changed my mind about that a few times.”

  “I know.” Her reply was equally serious. “And I haven’t made it any easier.”

  She needed physical contact, wanted to touch him, had to touch him. Reaching out, she set her hand lightly on his bicep, but just that small movement sent a quick jolt of electricity up her arm and right through her bloodstream. Danger, she thought. Don’t send messages you don’t intend to keep.

  She snatched her hand away. “I’ll get the coffee.”

  As she headed for the kitchen, her heart was beating a little more quickly than usual, and this time it wasn’t from fear. Keep busy, she told herself. It works.

  When she returned with the coffee tray, Nick was seated again at the table. It was such a lovely night, she thought wistfully. If only it didn’t have to end. For a while, she and Nick had managed to put away the anxiety, the unanswered questions, the underlying mystery of how she’d wound up here. In its place were two people getting to know each other.

  And wanting each other.

  While they drank coffee and ate store-bought coffee cake, Nick’s gaze continued to warm her with its approval. With this man, she didn’t have to act or put on paint, she realized; she had to do nothing except be herself. So much of her life had been spent trying to be “the good one”—so she could feel “safe”—that playing a role had become second nature.

  Not now.

  After setting down his fork with a contented sigh, Nick rose and stood behind her chair. She reveled in the sense of having his large body in back of her, wanted to let her head fall back against his hard stomach, wanted him to reach around with his long fingers and cup her breasts in his hands. The thought of this made the tips of her nipples harden with desire.

  Then he pulled out her chair and said, “Up.”

  “Huh?” Startled, Carly looked back at him questioningly.

  “Stretch out on the lounge—you deserve it. I’m cleaning up.”

  “No, I—”

  “I insist, ” he said, and proceeded to clear the table. His tone brooked no argument, so she did as he ordered, stretched out on the lounge and let her body relax into its contours.

  How silly she was, she thought as she watched the night. From the kitchen came the clatter of crockery, the sound of running water. All those sexy fantasies about what she’d like Nick to do to her...and he wanted to wash dishes.

  She laughed softly, then stopped abruptly as a new thought hit her. What was she doing? She shouldn’t be resting, exchanging jokes, flirting, engaging in fantasies. There were questions that needed answers, fears to be addressed.

  Somehow, this dinner with Nick had accomplished a miraculous thing—she’d stayed in the present for almost two hours. Her tired brain had been given a reprieve from the insanity of her situation. But it would have to be dealt with, and pretty soon.

  The clatter in the kitchen ceased suddenly and she angled her head toward the door. Moments later, Nick was back. He stood over her and stared down at her, his expression thoughtful. Then, seating himself on the edge of the lounge, he said softly, “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to clean up later.”

  “Oh?” Her heart fluttered. What had she just been telling herself? Something about dealing with something?

  The night was dark. The candle flickered on the table, but there was very little other light. In the shadows, the planes of Nick’s face appeared chiseled by a master sculptor. He was magnificent. Her skin tingled in anticipation.

  He stared at her, his eyes glowing green jewels in the candlelight. Then he nodded.

  “The dishes can wait. Right now, I need to do this instead,” he said, and lowered his head toward her waiting mouth.

  Chapter 6

&nbs
p; His mouth felt wonderful. The touch of it was gentle, but the feeling behind it insistent, possessive. With a move that was pure instinct, Carly parted her lips and greeted his tongue thirstily, a parched plant receiving sweet water. She heard his surprised intake of breath at the passion of her welcome, then his tongue invaded the inside of her mouth, stroking, tasting, curving over her teeth and the tender skin behind her upper lip.

  His assault brought back all the delicious memories of being with him the night before. She squirmed with wanting more, and he gave her more. His hands skimmed restlessly along her neck and shoulders, then he reached under her shirt, pushing the fabric up till her breasts were exposed to the night air.

  “Carly,” he groaned, shifting his attention down to her breast. He took one firm nipple inside his mouth and suckled her, the other received attention from his palm as he made light, teasing circles over the taut peak.

  An ache began between her legs, the muscles there clenched involuntarily. Good Lord, she thought hazily, right now, right at this moment, she wanted him inside her. No foreplay, no love words, just the strong, hard essence of him inside, filling her, completing her.

  As though he’d read her mind, he stretched out next to her on the lounge, turning her onto her side so she was facing him, pressed against him. She felt the bulge of his arousal, heard his deep, labored breathing—it matched her own—was aware that his hand was inside the elastic of the sweatpants, traveling down, down, till one finger found the round pulsating knob between her legs. She arched involuntarily, her body swimming in sensation.

  So soon? So quickly? The inner cautioning voice spoke to her in a whisper, but she heard it.

  What was happening? To be fired up so suddenly, so ready to welcome this man inside with no thought, no logic, just blind female need to be filled to the hilt by him? It was so out of character. So much heat, so quickly. This onrush of the primitive, age-old mating urge was frightening.