Covet

“Brace yourself.”

He didn't, and he didn't flinch as she touched the open wound.

Dab…dab…dab…Then back to the bowl, a little tinkling sound as she rinsed the cloth out. Dab…dab…

He closed his eyes and parted his lips, his chest rising and falling evenly. Up this close, she saw the five- o'clock shadow over his straight jaw and each of his long, black eyelashes and all of his trimmed, thick hair. He'd had his ear pierced at one point, but only on the right side, and it had obviously been years since he'd worn anything in the hole.

“What's your name?” he asked, his voice guttural.

She never gave Johns her real fake name, but he wasn't just a John, was he. If he hadn't come along when he had, things could have gotten ugly for her: Trez had been away from the club, the bouncers had been breaking up a skirmish out by the bar, and the hall led directly into the parking lot. Work of a moment and those two beefy college types could have had her in a car and…

“You have blood on your shirt,” she said, going back to the bowl.

Great conversationalist, she thought.

His lids lifted, but he didn't look down at himself. He looked at her. “I have other shirts.”

“I'll bet.”

He frowned a little. “Does that kind of thing happen to you often?”

With anyone else, she would have shut the question down with a quick of course not, but she felt as though, given what he'd done in the hall for her, he deserved something more truthful.

“Any chance you're undercover?” she murmured. “Not that you'd necessarily tell me, but I have to ask.”

He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and took out a card. “There's no way I'm a cop. I'm not as illegal as I used to be, but I wouldn't be eligible for a badge even if I wanted one. So ironically, you can trust me.”

She looked over what he gave her. The diPietro Group. Address here in downtown Caldwell. Very expensive card stock, very flashy professional logo, and a lot of numbers and e-mail addresses to reach him at. As she put the thing down on the counter, her instincts told her the part about his not being with the Caldwell PD was right. But the trust thing? She didn't trust men anymore.

Especially ones she was attracted to.

“So does that happen a lot?” he said.

Marie-Terese went back to work, wiping off his face, working her way down his cheek to his mouth. “Most people are okay. And management looks out for us. I've never been hurt.”

“Are you…a dancer?”

For a moment, she entertained a fantasy where she told him that all she did was hang out in one of those cages, showing off some moves, being nothing but eye candy. She could guess what he would do. He'd take a deep breath of relief and start relating to her as if she were just any other woman who'd caught his eye. No complications, no implications, nothing but some flirting between two people that might lead to bed.

Her silence made him take a breath, and it wasn't the oh-good kind. As he exhaled, the muscles that ran up his neck tightened into stark cords, like he had to fight back a wince.

This was the thing: She was never again going to have a normal get-to-know-you with a man. She had a dark secret, the kind that you had to gauge how many dates could pass before you had to reveal it — otherwise you were a liar by omission.

“How bad are your hands?” she said to fill the void.

When he held them out, she inspected his knuckles. The right ones were bruised and bleeding, and as she put the washcloth to use on them, she asked, “Do you come to the rescue of women a lot?”

“No, I really don't. You're missing an earring, by the way.”

She touched her lobe. “Yeah, I know. I meant to put another pair on today. But…”

“I'm Vin, by the way.” He put his palm out and waited. “Nice to meet you.”

Under other circumstances, she would have smiled at him. Ten years and a lifetime ago, she would have had to smile as she put her palm in his and they shook. Now, she just felt sadness.

“Nice to meet you, too. Vin.”

“Your name?”

She took her hand from his and ducked her head to concentrate on his knuckles. “Marie-Terese. My name…is Marie-Terese.”

* * *

She had such lovely eyes.

Marie-Terese of the lovely French name had absolutely lovely eyes. And she was gentle with her hands, carefully cleaning him up with that warm washcloth as if his nicks and scratches were something important.

Shit, he wanted to get into another fight just so she could nurse him again. “You should probably go to the doctor,” she said, patting the little towel across his cracked knuckles.

Absently, he noted that the terry cloth had started off white but now was pink from his blood, and he was glad that she'd put on the latex—not because he was HIV positive, but because he hoped the gesture generalized and meant she protected herself in what she did for a living.

He'd hoped all she did was dance. He really had.

She rinsed out the washcloth. “I said, you should see your doctor.”

“I'll be fine.” But would she? What would have happened if he and Jim hadn't come along?

God, there were so many questions he had all of a sudden. He wanted to know why someone like her was in this line of work. He wanted to know what harshness had brought her to the place she was at. He wanted to know…what he could do to help, not just tonight, but tomorrow and the day after that.

Except none of that was any of his business. More to the point, he had a feeling that if he pressed her for details, she would close up on him.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, because he couldn't help it.

She paused with the cloth. “Okay.”

He knew he shouldn't do what he was about to, but he could not fight the overwhelming draw of her. It had nothing to do with his mind and everything to do with his…okay, heart was too stinkin' melodramatic. But whatever was driving him came from the center of his chest.

So fine, maybe his sternum was really into her.

“Will you have dinner with me?”

The door to the locker room swung wide, and the flame-haired prostitute who'd triggered Devina’s exit strode in.

“Oh! Excuse me…I didn't know anyone was in here.” As she stared at Vin, her bright red lips widened into a false smile that suggested she'd known exactly who was in the locker room.

Marie-Terese moved away from him, taking her warm cloth and her bowl of water and her soft hands with her. “We were just leaving, Gina.”

Vin took the cue and stood up. As he cursed the redhead's interruption, he caught an eyeball full of all the makeup on the counter and reminded himself that she had more of a right to be here than he did.

Marie-Terese went into the bathroom, and he imagined her cleaning out the bowl and rinsing the washcloth off, then snapping free the gloves. She was going to come out of there and he was going to say good-bye and…she was going to take off that fleece and go back into the crowd.

Staring at the door she'd gone through, while the prostitute next to him chattered away, the strangest feeling came over Vin. It was like a fog had gathered on the floor and sent tendrils up his legs and over his chest and all the way to his brain. He was suddenly hot on the outside and cold on the inside…

Shit, he knew what this was. He knew exactly what was happening. It had been years, but he knew where this constellation of sensation went.

Vin grabbed onto the stool and let his ass fall back upon it. Breathe. Just breathe, you big dumb bastard. Breathe…

“So I saw your girlfriend left,” the redhead was saying as she sidled up to him. “You want some company?”

Hands with blood-colored nails as long as talons reached out and drifted up his stained lapel. He brushed her