Relatively Risky by Pauline Baird Jones Page A

Mother Earth.
    He walked to the base. From this vantage point, all he could see was her butt, surrounded by branches and leaves and one foot dangling over the edge. So he hadn’t imagined it. She did have a nice caboose. His libido gave itself a shake. Glad it was still around, but now was not the time. Nell was not his type. Not the time to recall that his ex had been his type…
    â€œMiss Whitby?”
    There was a pause, then the foot was pulled in and the body—and the caboose—turned until he could see her face peering down at him through the branches. She didn’t say anything, something he found a bit unnerving. Might have arched her brows. Hard to tell with the shade playing games with her face.
    â€œI realized you live pretty close and thought it would simplify things if I stopped by and got your statement. From this morning.”
    â€œOh, right. This morning. Sure. Come on up.”
    He wanted to but felt like he shouldn’t. Tree climbing was for children, not homicide detectives. He studied the arrangement of branches and trunk. It was a great tree.
    â€œIt’s lovely and cool.” Her face disappeared and her caboose reappeared in the juncture. “Unless you’re afraid….”
    Her voice had just enough imp in it to provoke—if the taunt wasn’t enough. He started up, half expected gravity to be bitchy about it, but it must be snoozing in the afternoon sun, too. In short order he’d clambered up beside her. Close, but not too close, was another branch arrangement where he could settle quite comfortably. She was right. It was nice up here. Relaxing. Like he’d left his worries and frustrations back on the ground. And his hang ups. Air moved softly through the leaves, their rustle just enough to mute distant car sounds and cool the sweat from his climb.
    He turned and studied her, curious to compare memory with reality. She’d changed into a pair of shorts that showed off a rather well constructed pair of legs, though she still wore the cowboy boots so he didn’t get the full view. She’d tucked her portfolio into a branch close by her, had a closed pad resting on her lap. One knee was scrubbed, probably from this morning. Her hair puffed out around her head, the ends curling in a variety of directions.
    She fingered the end of a strand. “It increases exponentially, in proportion to the humidity level.”
    He chuckled and was rewarded with a smile that put crinkles around her eyes. He shifted uneasily. “They smile.”
    â€œExcuse me?” She blinked, though slowly, her lashes drifting down and then up as if that was all she had energy to do.
    â€œYour eyes. They smile.”
    â€œDo they?” She touched the edge of one, as if feeling for the smile.
    â€œInside them.” He knew he was being…something. Should shut up.
    â€œOh.” Her lips curved up to match her eyes. A slight breeze made the shadows on her face shift, revealing, then shading her mouth.
    â€œHow was the muse?” he surprised himself by asking.
    She made a face, punctuated it with a lazy shrug.
    His libido kicked it up a notch. Odd to feel that slow slide now. He dealt with the aftermath of human impulse at work all the time. Saw a butt load of human impulse—and some he considered not-human—helping to raise his siblings. He should understand it. Didn’t. He didn’t know why he’d come. Wasn’t sorry. Found himself remembering the moment when he’d almost kissed her and hadn’t. Maybe he should give into impulse every now and again. Sure couldn’t make a move now when they were up a tree. Was kind of sorry about that.
    She shifted position, uncrossing her booted feet. She leaned forward, stowing her pad in the portfolio and securing it.
    â€œYou’re not from here, are you?” The question came out conversational, rather than cop-like.
    â€œWyoming.” She turned her head, just enough