survival skills.
“He’s gotten pretty conservative in his old age. If you’d like something stronger, I’ll get it for you.”
“No. Thank you. I’m fine.” And she was fine, practically. Her headache had eased half a degree from wretched, and she’d gotten her panic down from a wailing screech to a low, manageable hum. Christian Hawkins was polite, and she was fine, and everything was perfect except for whatever the hell had happened at the art auction, and the fact that for some reason two men possibly—or improbably—from the Department of Defense had been at the party, and one of them—unbelievably—was a car thief she’d once been in love with, who had gone to prison for the murder of her ex-boyfriend.
“Great. I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he said.
Well, gee. It didn’t get any more polite than that.
Taking another deep, calming breath, she readied herself to say something sincerely remorseful, something tinged with years of hard-won wisdom about the regretful failings of youth—and, so help her God, she would have gotten it all out, if he hadn’t started his monster muscle car and forced a quick shift in her priorities. She grabbed for the door with one hand and the seat with her other and held on for dear life.
H AWKINS slanted her another glance and noticed her white-knuckled grip on the door handle. He didn’t blame her for it. They’d had a wild ride from the Botanic Gardens—not that he had any regrets. Given Dylan’s news, they hadn’t moved any faster than necessary.
“I talked with my partner while you were with Doc, and he cleared me for taking you home. He and your secretary are going to meet us at the gallery.” That should make her feel safer, knowing she was only minutes away from a reunion with her dweeb boyfriend.
“Alex is all right, then?” She turned sideways in her seat, a concerned look on her face. “He wasn’t hurt?”
“He’s fine, very worried about you.”
Relief instantly softened her features, though she didn’t loosen her grip on the car. “He’s the world’s worst worrier, such a fussbudget. Of course, that’s what makes him great at his job.”
Fussbudget? That didn’t sound like a boyfriend. It sounded like a roommate.
“Did you tell him I was okay?” she asked.
“My partner did,” he assured her. A roommate as gay as he dressed, he decided, giving her a discreet once-over. No sane straight man could share her bathroom on a platonic basis—and that was pure experience speaking. Living with her for a month in the Brown Palace had been his own personal, excellent adventure into the never-never land of girls and girl stuff. He’d loved all of it: silk demibras hanging from the towel rack, hand-washed underwear, eight kinds of lotion, necklaces draped over the mirror, a perfume for every mood, sex in the shower, the whole sensory experience intensified by the warm humidity and small space of the bathroom. The only place he’d liked better was the bed with the window open and a summer night breeze blowing over their bare skin.
Admittedly, he’d had kind of a one-track mind at nineteen, but he didn’t now, and all his other tracks were telling him to get off that one track—get off it, and stay off it.
He cleared his throat. “Only one person was injured at the Gardens.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Dead was about as injured as a person could get.
“Who?”
“I don’t have a name yet,” he said, sliding Roxanne into reverse. “Did you know anybody at the auction?”
“A few people. It was a society event, and I . . .” Her voice trailed off, but, yeah, he knew why she would know a few people in the Denver Social Register. More than a few.
“Who was there that you knew?”
She thought for a second, but just a second. “Well, you, of course.”
Of course, he silently repeated, and wondered why her inclusion of him among people she would admit to knowing gave him even a hint of satisfaction.
“And Vickie
“He’s gotten pretty conservative in his old age. If you’d like something stronger, I’ll get it for you.”
“No. Thank you. I’m fine.” And she was fine, practically. Her headache had eased half a degree from wretched, and she’d gotten her panic down from a wailing screech to a low, manageable hum. Christian Hawkins was polite, and she was fine, and everything was perfect except for whatever the hell had happened at the art auction, and the fact that for some reason two men possibly—or improbably—from the Department of Defense had been at the party, and one of them—unbelievably—was a car thief she’d once been in love with, who had gone to prison for the murder of her ex-boyfriend.
“Great. I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he said.
Well, gee. It didn’t get any more polite than that.
Taking another deep, calming breath, she readied herself to say something sincerely remorseful, something tinged with years of hard-won wisdom about the regretful failings of youth—and, so help her God, she would have gotten it all out, if he hadn’t started his monster muscle car and forced a quick shift in her priorities. She grabbed for the door with one hand and the seat with her other and held on for dear life.
H AWKINS slanted her another glance and noticed her white-knuckled grip on the door handle. He didn’t blame her for it. They’d had a wild ride from the Botanic Gardens—not that he had any regrets. Given Dylan’s news, they hadn’t moved any faster than necessary.
“I talked with my partner while you were with Doc, and he cleared me for taking you home. He and your secretary are going to meet us at the gallery.” That should make her feel safer, knowing she was only minutes away from a reunion with her dweeb boyfriend.
“Alex is all right, then?” She turned sideways in her seat, a concerned look on her face. “He wasn’t hurt?”
“He’s fine, very worried about you.”
Relief instantly softened her features, though she didn’t loosen her grip on the car. “He’s the world’s worst worrier, such a fussbudget. Of course, that’s what makes him great at his job.”
Fussbudget? That didn’t sound like a boyfriend. It sounded like a roommate.
“Did you tell him I was okay?” she asked.
“My partner did,” he assured her. A roommate as gay as he dressed, he decided, giving her a discreet once-over. No sane straight man could share her bathroom on a platonic basis—and that was pure experience speaking. Living with her for a month in the Brown Palace had been his own personal, excellent adventure into the never-never land of girls and girl stuff. He’d loved all of it: silk demibras hanging from the towel rack, hand-washed underwear, eight kinds of lotion, necklaces draped over the mirror, a perfume for every mood, sex in the shower, the whole sensory experience intensified by the warm humidity and small space of the bathroom. The only place he’d liked better was the bed with the window open and a summer night breeze blowing over their bare skin.
Admittedly, he’d had kind of a one-track mind at nineteen, but he didn’t now, and all his other tracks were telling him to get off that one track—get off it, and stay off it.
He cleared his throat. “Only one person was injured at the Gardens.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Dead was about as injured as a person could get.
“Who?”
“I don’t have a name yet,” he said, sliding Roxanne into reverse. “Did you know anybody at the auction?”
“A few people. It was a society event, and I . . .” Her voice trailed off, but, yeah, he knew why she would know a few people in the Denver Social Register. More than a few.
“Who was there that you knew?”
She thought for a second, but just a second. “Well, you, of course.”
Of course, he silently repeated, and wondered why her inclusion of him among people she would admit to knowing gave him even a hint of satisfaction.
“And Vickie
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