'Gabrielle, you're scaring me.'
'Shhh.' She didn't believe anything scared him, especially her. She dipped her fingers into the oil, then slid her palms down, then up his back, preparing and warming his muscles for a deeper massage. She molded her hands to the contours of his flesh, feeling and learning the definition and shape of him. 'Is this where it hurts?' she asked as her hands moved to his right shoulder.
'A bit lower.'
She kneaded and squeezed and rubbed a drop of black pepper oil onto his aching muscles. The heat from the fire warmed his skin, while the light of the flames chased shadows across his flesh and gleamed in his dark hair. A pleasurable flutter settled in her stomach, and her mind and spirit fought to keep her touch impersonal. She might not be a licensed masseuse, but she knew the distinct difference between a healing massage and a sensual massage.
'Gabrielle?'
'Yes.'
'I'm sorry about what happened in the park last week.'
'For tackling me?'
'No, I'm not sorry about that. I enjoyed it too much.'
'Then what are you sorry about?'
'That you were frightened.'
'And that's the only thing you're sorry about?'
'Well, yeah.'
She gently sank her fingertips into his flesh. She had a feeling he didn't apologize for anything very often, and she accepted it as his best effort.
'I've got to admit, I've never been mistaken for a stalker before.'
'You probably have, just no one has told you the truth before me.' She smiled and continued to stroke across his shoulder and down his arms. 'You have a very menacing aura sometimes. You should work on it.'
'I'll be sure to do that.'
She slid her hands back up and pressed her thumbs in the bony ridge at the base of his skull. 'I'm sorry I hurt your leg.'
One of her thumbs brushed his jaw as he glanced over his shoulder at her. His dark eyes looked up at her, firelight casting his face within a golden glow. 'When?'
'That day in the park when I got you on the ground. Afterward, you limped to the car.'
'That's an old injury. You didn't do that.'
'Oh.'
'You sound disappointed.'
'No.' Her fingers fanned outward, and her hands moved to the sides of his rib cage. 'Not disappointed exactly. You were so horrible to me, I just liked to think I made you suffer a little bit that day too.'
He smiled before he returned his gaze to the fire. 'Oh, you did. Every time I walk into the station, I get a raft of shit about you and your hair spray. I'm likely to hear about you for years.'
'Once this case is over, everyone will forget about me.' Beneath his hard muscles, his ribs tapered to his flat abdomen. 'You'll probably forget, too.'
'Now, that's never going to happen,' he spoke from deep within his chest. 'I'll never forget you, Gabrielle Breedlove.'
His words pleased her more than she wanted to admit. They settled beneath her breast, next to her heart, and wanned her like the glow of a tea candle. She smoothed her hands down Joe's sides to his waist, up to his armpits, then back down. 'Now bring your awareness to your shoulders. Take a deep breath, and hold it.' She felt him suck his stomach in, and his muscles turned hard. 'You aren't holding a deep breath, are you?'
'No.'
'You have to use your breathing if you want to relax completely.'
'Impossible.'
'Why?'
'Just take my word for it.'
'Would a glass of wine help?'
'I don't drink wine.' He paused before he spoke again. 'There's only one thing that would help.'
'What is it?'
'A cold shower.'
'That doesn't sound relaxing.'
He laughed again, but he didn't sound amused. 'Well, there is one other thing I've been sitting here thinking about.'
'What?' she asked although she knew.
His words were low and husky when he said, 'Never mind. It involves both of us naked, and that can't happen.'
Of course she knew it couldn't. They were complete opposites. He upset her universal balance. She wanted a man of enlightenment. He was as enlightened as a caveman. He thought she was crazy, and maybe she was. Less than a week ago, she'd thought he was a stalker; now he sat in her living room while she oiled his body as if he were a Chippendale dancer. Maybe she was crazy. Still she asked, 'Why?'
'You're my informant.'
Which wasn't a good reason as far as she was concerned. The informant's agreement she'd signed was a piece of paper. A piece of paper that couldn't dictate desire. Now, the fact that they were two totally different people, with totally different beliefs, should have been a very good reason for them to avoid the huge mistake of falling in bed together.
But as she watched the glow of firelight flicker across his smooth back, their differences didn't seem to matter all that much. The movement of her hands turned fluid and soothing and sensual. Joe upset her balance so much that she forgot all about keeping her touch impersonal. She clipped her fingers into the warmed oil, and her touch grew feather light as she caressed his spine. 'Bring your awareness into your solar plexus and abdomen. Take a deep breath, then let it go.'
She closed her eyes and let her hands slide over the supple contours of his lower back. Then she lightly ran the tips of her fingers up his spine. He shivered even as his muscles bunched beneath his tight, hot skin, and she fanned her thumbs across his smooth flesh. Suddenly, she had an overwhelming urge to moan or sigh or lean forward and sink her teeth into him. 'Bring your awareness into your groin.'
'Too late.' He stood and turned to face her. 'It's already there.'
She looked up into his heavy-lidded eyes and the curve of his mouth. A bead of sweat slid down his cheek and jaw, down the side of his neck, and settled in the hollow of his tan throat. She lifted her hands and placed them on his flat abdomen. Her thumbs stroked the line of dark hair circling his navel.
Her gaze lowered to his waist and the unmistakable swell of his erection. Her fingers curled against his belly, and her throat felt dry. She licked her lips, and her gaze drifted lower to the scar on his thigh just visible through the split in the beach towel.
'Sit down, Joe,' she ordered and pushed until his behind hit the seat. The towel rode up his right thigh, revealing the bottom edge of a pair of black boxers. 'Is this where you were shot?' she asked as she knelt between his knees.
'Yes.'
She dipped her thumbs into the oil, then circled them over the scar. 'Does it still hurt?'
'No. At least not like it used to,' he said, his voice rough.
The thought of such violence broke her heart, and she gazed up into his face. 'Who did this to you?'
Looking down at her through lowered lids, he waited so long to answer that she didn't think he would. 'An informant named Robby Martin. You probably heard about it It was in all the newspapers about a year ago.'
The name sounded familiar, and it took her a moment to remember. Then a picture of a young blond kid flashed across her memory. The story had been news for a long time. The name of the undercover detective who'd fired the fatal shot had never been mentioned, and she'd forgotten anyone but Robby had been shot. 'That was you?'
Again he waited before he answered, 'Yes.'
