Читать книгу On Dangerous Ground - Maggie Price, Maggie Price - Страница 9

Hand unsteady, Sky rang the doorbell on the elegant Tudor brick house that sat bathed in silver moonlight. She was barely aware of the white roses that tumbled out of a massive planter near the door, paid no attention to their sweet scent that hung in the warm summer air. Two hours had passed since she’d walked out of the FOP club—away from Grant—and every nerve in her body was still scrambled.

So much for well-laid plans. Facing him had been hard. More difficult than she thought it could ever be. She had rehearsed everything in her mind before she walked into the club. Knew exactly what to say about the results of the DNA profiles. Had fought to keep her voice steady.

Nothing inside her had stayed steady, she conceded while she waited in the overlapping puddles of light from the carriage lamps bordering the house’s massive front door. She closed her eyes, picturing again the sight of Grant nursing his drink in a dim corner of the club. His thick, sandy hair had been rumpled, his broad shoulders bent as if they carried the weight of the world. His chiseled features had been set, remote. Yet, when he’d raised his head to meet her gaze, his eyes had been full of the pain of his partner’s death.

Just one look and he had shaken her off balance.

She thought she had grown stronger over the past six months. Maybe she had in other areas, but she still had few defenses where Grant Pierce was concerned. She needed those defenses. God, did she need them.

From somewhere behind her, a sharp, metallic click sounded on the still night air. Sky’s scalp prickled, followed by a jolt of sheer terror. Years of self-defense training kicked in; she raised her arms and whirled. The screech that followed could have doubled for the tornado warning siren.

“Good grief, Sigmund!” Sky stared down at twelve pounds of gray, outraged tomcat whose fur and tail were standing straight on end. “Sorry I stepped on your tail,” she muttered after her heart unfroze in her chest. How did you explain to a cat that she’d mistaken the metallic click of its tags with the snick of a switchblade shooting out of a hilt? The all-too-real memory of that sound echoed in her head, had her swallowing back bile.

Just then, the front door swung open and she jolted.

“Sky, what a pleasant surprise,” Dr. Judith Mirren commented in a soft voice that carried the faintest hint of her native Louisiana. Her searching gaze swept past Sky’s shoulder. “Please tell me it wasn’t you who just howled like a banshee.”

Sky pushed away the chilling memories that had surged from her past. “Sigmund snuck up on me and I stepped on his tail.” She motioned toward the shadowy porch rail where the cat now sat staring with regal feline disdain, tail twitching as if it had electrodes attached.

“No harm done, I’m sure,” Dr. Mirren said, pulling the door open wider. “Come in.”

The woman’s brown eyes were kind—and sharp. At sixty, she had settled comfortably into middle age, the lines on her face revealing a quiet intelligence that came only with experiencing life. Her hair was a mix of honey-brown and gray, scooped up in a loose topknot. She wore trim black slacks and a chic linen blouse the color of storm clouds.

Sky gave an apologetic smile. “I should have called first.”

“Nonsense. This evening’s group left about ten minutes ago,” the doctor said as she stepped back to let Sky in. “I was considering making myself a latte, but Richard’s out of town and I didn’t want to drink one alone. Now I don’t have to.”

“I didn’t plan on dropping by,” Sky explained as she entered the large wood-paneled foyer with glossy pine floors. “I went for a drive and somehow wound up here.”

Dr. Mirren arched an eyebrow. Wordlessly she shut the door and nodded toward a wide doorway. “Make yourself comfortable in the study. I’ll be back with our lattes.”

“Need some help?”

“Thank you, no. I’ll just be a minute.”

Sky walked across the entry and into the room where she had spent every Monday evening for the past six months. The study was warm and vibrant with thick rugs, polished brasses and solidly constructed furniture. Faint wisps of lavender haunted the air. Always before, the mood of the room soothed, but tonight Sky was as taut as a coiled spring and the feeling had nothing to do with her close encounter with Sigmund.

Her fingertips grazed the top of the inviting tobacco-brown rolled-arm sofa. She’d sat here and told people she barely knew about the terrifying event that had altered the course of her life. Related intimate details she could not share with Grant, not after the way she’d humiliated herself that last time they were together.

Getting involved with him had been wrong, so unfair. She had hurt him—not intentionally, but she’d hurt him all the same. Now he would rather take a cab than climb into a car with her. The knowledge made her want to weep.

“Here we are,” Dr. Mirren said as she swept through the arched entrance, bringing with her two oversize cups and the heady scent of rich coffee.

“It smells wonderful,” Sky said, accepting the cup the doctor offered.

“Let’s hope it tastes that way. I’ve only had the espresso maker a week, so I’m still practicing.” Smiling, she sat in a leather wing chair on the opposite side of the rug that spread a soft pattern along the wood floor. She blew across the rim of her cup, then sipped. “Not bad.”

Sky settled on the sofa. “It’s perfect,” she said, savoring the creamy heat that slid down her throat.

“You mentioned you went for a drive and somehow wound up here.” As usual, the psychiatrist took little time getting to the heart of a matter. “Did something happen tonight?”

“I saw Grant.”

“A date?”

“Hardly. I had to tell him about the results of a comparison on DNA found at two of his homicide cases.”

“Did you go to his home to tell him?”

“No.” Although she’d made only a few vague references about her relationship with Grant to the Monday-night group, she had told Dr. Mirren all the details during their private sessions. “I wouldn’t have the nerve to just show up and knock on the door. Grant’s partner died of a heart attack, and the funeral was this afternoon. I knew he’d gone to the FOP club, so I went there.” She lifted a shoulder. “A mistake.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s a social setting. We don’t have that kind of relationship anymore. Never will have again.”

“Could you have waited until tomorrow to tell him about the DNA results?” Dr. Mirren asked, her eyes meeting Sky’s over the rim of her cup.

“I suppose. He needed to know, though.”

“I’m sure,” the doctor said agreeably, as if they were discussing the weather. “Could you have put this information in a memo?”

Sky tightened her grip on the cup’s ceramic handle. “I have to do that, too.”

“So, you chose to face this man.”

“I don’t know why. We’ve had no contact in six months.” That hadn’t stopped a greasy pool of jealousy from churning in her belly when the waitress at the FOP club put the moves on Grant. Sky chewed her lower lip. It had taken everything she had to sit there while the temptation to deck the woman passed.

She set her cup on the thick wood coffee table in front of the sofa. Too unsettled to stay put, she rose and walked to the leaded-glass windows that spanned one wall of the paneled study. Outside, an obviously recovered Sigmund scuttled full speed across the porch after a fluttering moth.

“I think I decided to tell Grant in person because of how he looked at Sam’s funeral,” Sky said after a moment. “So miserable. Alone.”

She’d felt the same way, and it hadn’t had anything to do with Sam’s death. Seeing Grant at the cemetery had sent memories storming through her. Of the stolen lunches they’d managed in the midst of a grueling serial killer task force they’d both been assigned to. His nightly phone calls when his deep, husky voice slid like velvet across her senses. The department’s Christmas dance when she’d first found the courage to step into his arms. The few tentative kisses that had sent need whipping through her. An intimate restaurant where violins stroked as soft as a lover’s touch, then later at his house when he’d pulled her to him and the rich male taste of his mouth swept her teetering toward the edge of control. Seconds later, her stomach had knotted, her lungs refused to work and she’d almost hyperventilated from the feeling of being trapped, with no way out. No way to save herself—though there’d been nothing to save herself from. On the heels of that panicked terror had come the agonizing realization that, no matter how much she wanted to—longed to—give herself to him, she couldn’t.

Now those memories gained strength, slamming into her so hard, so unexpectedly, that Sky found herself blinking back tears. She felt acid in her throat as humiliation pooled inside her.

“I wish…” She paused and steadied her voice. “I wish that night with Grant had never happened.”

“Sky, listen to me.” Dr. Mirren sat forward, her eyes sharp and knowing. “The rape you experienced in college was violent and sadistic, and it cut through the core of your existence. To make matters worse, the therapist the college sent you to was inept. If he hadn’t eventually lost his license, I would personally hunt him down and make a professional eunuch of him.”

Sky stared in silence, surprised by the woman’s candor.

“Because of his incompetence,” Dr. Mirren continued, “you never had a chance to properly deal with the attack. Certainly you healed physically from the knife wound. You became skilled in self-defense so you can now protect yourself if necessary.”

“Right. I can take down most any man,” Sky shot back. “I just can’t let one love me.” She gave her head a frustrated shake. “My hormones were in full swing that night with Grant. I wanted. Oh, God, I wanted…” Her voice trailed off. “I just couldn’t.”

“Because you repressed your feelings about the rape, denied your emotions and blocked the experience so you could function and get on with your life. Everything boiled to the surface while you were with Grant and you reacted very strongly.”

“I almost upchucked on his shoes,” Sky said miserably. “How’s that for impressing a man who wants to make love to you?”

“It makes you human. And memorable.”

“I’ll say.” Sky tried a smile, but it didn’t gel. “Grant mentioned tonight he won’t ever forget that particular experience.”

“Will you?”

“Not a chance.”

“It appears it affected you both equally.”

“Him worse. I hurt him.” As if chilled, Sky wrapped her arms around her waist. “When the panic hit me, I could barely even get out the words to make Grant understand I’d been raped in college. I could hardly breathe, much less give him details about the attack. He asked me to stay with him, just stay with him so he could hold me. All he wanted was to be there for me.” She closed her eyes. “I couldn’t let him. Couldn’t trust myself not to fall apart again. I still can’t,” she added softly.

“Don’t be so sure.” Dr. Mirren set her cup aside. “You’ve done admirably over the past months coming to grips with the trauma of the rape and its aftermath. Whether you realize it or not, you’ve begun to make some small changes in your life.”

“Changes?”

“Your glasses, for instance,” Dr. Mirren said. “Until a few weeks ago, you wore large glasses with tortoiseshell frames.”

Baffled, Sky nodded. She’d chosen the understated wire-rims on impulse during her last visit to the eye doctor. Even ordered a pair of contacts, which she now wore almost as often as her glasses. “My vision changed and I needed a new prescription, that’s all.”

“Instead of frames that conceal a large portion of your face—your looks—you chose an attractive pair that draw attention to you, not away. A man’s attention, perhaps.”

Sky felt her spine stiffen. “I don’t want men to notice me.”

“For years you haven’t. Now that you’ve begun dealing with the rape, your outer self is changing. Your clothes are different, too. You’re wearing black today probably because you attended a funeral, but you wear more colorful clothes than you did when you first started therapy.”

“My wardrobe needed updating.” Sky turned and stared out the window at the glowing ball of the full moon. A month or so ago, she had walked into her closet and found herself grimacing at all of the blacks, browns and grays. On a whim she’d taken a rare day off from the lab, gone to the mall and spent hundreds of dollars on a new, colorful wardrobe. She’d had no idea what prompted the trip, just that all that blandness had suddenly made her feel edgy and unsettled. Restless.

Just like she felt tonight.

She turned. Dr. Mirren had remained in the high-back leather chair, looking her usual calm and serene self. “Okay, so maybe I’m no longer hiding behind big glasses and drab colors,” Sky conceded. “There’s some things I can’t change. And one of those is my relationship with Grant.”

“You faced him tonight.” Eyes filled with ready understanding, Dr. Mirren folded her neat hands in her lap. “You could have sent him a memo about your DNA findings, or even phoned. Instead, you went to him.”

“On business. I had to tell him about the DNA.”

“You don’t have to explain why, Sky. You just need to understand that for years your life has been focused on your work. Now you may be ready to also focus on a relationship. When, and if, you act on that is up to you.”

Massaging her right temple, Sky paced the length of the built-in shelves where antique decoys nested amid leather volumes. The ache that had settled in her head while she’d been at the FOP club had transformed into a throb.

Before she met Grant Pierce, she had felt so in control. So content with her life. So safe.

Her hand slid slowly down her cheek; she pressed her palm against her jaw where his fingertips had skimmed. When he first walked into her life, everything about him—his sinfully handsome face, burnt-whiskey voice and roguish reputation—had tempted her to turn tail and run. Nevertheless, she’d stayed put. Told herself she’d healed completely. Refused to acknowledge the inner wariness that spiked inside her whenever Grant got too close. For the first time since the rape, she had wanted a man.

As much as he’d wanted her.

Too late she learned the monster from her past still had her in its grip.

Now, according to Dr. Mirren, that monster was breathing its last breath.

Sky dragged air into her lungs that should have cleansed, but didn’t. She knew there was no way she could trust that she had truly closed the door on the past. No way to be sure the monster wouldn’t spring back to life.

No way she could risk doing anything about the searing need for Grant that still burned inside her.

Leaning back, feet propped on his desk, Grant listened intently to the party on the other end of the telephone. It had taken him five days to track down this lead that could be a starting point at locating Ellis Whitebear’s twin brother. Finally he was getting somewhere.

The next instant, Grant’s eyes widened. “Are you sure about that?”

“Positive. Ellis Whitebear became a ward of the State of Texas at the age of two months when his mother gave him up for adoption.”

“I need to take a look at those records.”

“They’re sealed. I suggest you direct any questions about his family history to Mr. Whitebear himself.”

Grant muttered a few choice words under his breath. Adopted. Sealed records. Mystery DNA. How much better could this get?

“Did you say something, Sergeant Pierce?”

“Nothing you’d want to hear.” Grant swung his feet onto the floor and started searching for the name he’d jotted on a yellow sticky note. “Look, Mrs….”

“Kanawa.”

“Mrs. Kanawa, Ellis Whitebear is sitting on death row at the Oklahoma State Penitentiary. I helped put him there. He’s not likely to schmooze with me about his relatives. Besides, the information he gave to the Department of Corrections doesn’t mention anything about being adopted. Which means Whitebear may not even know about it, much less the details of his birth family.”

“That’s highly possible.”

“More like probable,” Grant added. “Mrs. Kanawa, I called you with what I thought was a routine request for information. I figured you could check Whitebear’s birth certificate and read me his parents’ names. Then I planned to ask if you could check for a birth certificate for his twin brother. Now you’re talking about adoption and sealed files.”

“Nothing wrong with your hearing, Sergeant.”

The woman’s steely tone told Grant he’d better crank out some charm if he was going to get anywhere.

“Look, I’m a civil servant, too.” He added a soft chuckle for effect. “I know all about red tape. God knows we’re drowning in it here in Oklahoma City. But you and I can get around all that. I’ll skip asking you the names of Whitebear’s parents, if you’ll check his file and tell me what it says about any natural siblings. Specifically a twin brother. Yes, he exists. No, he doesn’t. That’s all the information I need from you.”

“Sergeant, here in Texas, sealed means sealed. No one has access to that file. Not even me.”

Grant scraped his fingers through his hair and held on to control. “What sort of paperwork does the great state of Texas require for me to get access?”

“You have to appear before the presiding judge in this county and show cause why the court should make that information available to you.”

“I have to appear?”

“Yes. I can fax you the judge’s information so you can contact his clerk.”

“Great,” Grant said, then rambled off his fax number before hanging up. He propped his elbows on his desk and rubbed at the knot of tension in his neck.

This late in the afternoon, the Homicide squad room was filled with detectives sitting behind ancient metal desks. Several talked on the phone, one pounded thick fingers against a computer keyboard, still another leafed through a stack of crime scene photos from this morning’s whodunit. Across the room, Jake Ford sat at his desk, taking information from a tall redhead wearing half a dress who’d walked in off the street claiming to have information about a homicide that occurred ten years ago. Thank God it wasn’t one of Sam’s cases, Grant thought as he idly watched the redhead sweep her hand through the air to make some point. If it had been, he’d be the one sitting there with his eyes crossed, instead of Ford.

Grant caught movement at the door, turned his head in time to see Julia Remington breeze in. She was slim, beautiful and had an enviable homicide clearance rate. The printout draped over her arm was thick enough for Grant to know he’d be working some heavy duty overtime. “You owe me big bucks for this, Pierce,” she said, then plopped the printout onto the clutter in the center of his desk. “Pay up.”

“Pay up? You’re married to the CEO of Remington Aerospace, and you’re trying to extort money from me?”

She smirked. “This coming from the guy who lives on his family’s estate, wears Armani suits and Gucci.”

Grant raised a shoulder. He was independently wealthy, having inherited a nice little enterprise called Pierce Oil, the company left to him and his older brother years ago when their parents died in a plane crash. The only thing Grant had ever wanted to be was a cop, so he gladly left the running of the company to his brother. But he didn’t try to hide the fact that he lived beyond his city salary.

“Give me a break, Julia. I live in the guest house. I haven’t bought a new suit in months, and the Gucci shoes are two years old.” He gave her a caustic grin. “How come you’re so prickly? You chip a nail when you went to Communications to pick up the printout for me?”

“Stuff it, Pierce.” She slid a hip onto the edge of the desk and swept her hand toward the pages. “The names are in alphabetical order. The only Whitebear that NCIC lists is your buddy Ellis.”

“Great.”

There had to be a missing twin, Grant thought. He’d hoped the ghost search he’d run through the National Crime Information Center for all Native American males with the same date of birth as Ellis Whitebear would bring up the man’s brother. Maybe it had, Grant mused as he thumbed through the printout’s pages. If a different family had adopted Ellis’s twin, then he’d probably be using that family’s surname. And maybe a different date of birth, if that date had been unclear when their mother handed her two-month-old sons over to the state of Texas. Or, maybe the twin hadn’t ever been arrested, never did military service, had no mental health commitments or contracts with law enforcement. If so, he wouldn’t show up in NCIC’s database.

“Dammit, Sam and I closed this case. It’s not supposed to jump up two years down the road and bite me on the rear.”

Julia skimmed her gaze to the desk that butted up to the front of Grant’s. “Any idea how long it will be until they bring in someone new?”

“No.”

“Whoever it is will be your partner. The lieutenant will ask for your input.”

Grant kept his eyes off Sam’s desk. The day before, he’d finally boxed up the photo of his partner’s wife and kids and the Mickey Mantel-autographed baseball Sam had displayed on one corner of the desk. After adding the cache of cigars and personal papers he’d dug out of the drawers, Grant had taken the box to Sam’s widow. He wondered how long just looking at the now-bare desk would put a knot in his gut. He couldn’t even think about anyone else taking up residence there. “If Ryan asks, I’ll tell him to take his time.”

Julia nodded as she thumbed through a stack of messages she’d picked up from the secretary’s desk on her way in. “Meanwhile, let me know if you need any help. Halliday and I just cleared our last open case.”

“Lucky you.”

She hesitated. “I almost forgot. Lonnie asked me to tell you Sky phoned while you were on your last call.”

“Thanks.” Grant set his jaw against the instant zing that shot through his blood. For six months, he and Sky had avoided each other. He knew she was probably calling to tell him she’d gotten the results from the blood samples she’d sent to the OSBI. Nothing between them had changed, he reminded himself. If it wasn’t for work, they still wouldn’t have anything to say to each other.

“Don’t bother calling the lab,” Julia said when he reached for his phone. “Lonnie said Sky is at the Training Center teaching recruit school this afternoon. She’ll call you back when the session’s over.”

“Yo, Remington,” one detective bellowed from across the room, the cord on his phone dangling from his fingers. “Your old man’s on line three.”

Sighing, Julia slid off the desk. “Sloan would love hearing himself called that.”

After Julia moved off, Grant retrieved the printout she’d left, intending to start scanning the names. Ten minutes later, his forehead creased when he found himself still staring at the first page. His mind ought to be centered on the computer-generated names, not on Sky Milano’s take-you-to-heaven blue eyes.

“Get a grip, Pierce.” It annoyed him that he hadn’t been able to completely forget her over the past six months—more, that he’d been unable to lock her out of his head since she’d walked into the FOP club five nights ago. One of his cases had turned to hell, and that was what he should be focused on. Only that. Instead, he felt himself being pulled by a woman who had made it clear she didn’t trust him, and had forced him out of her life.

He was achingly aware that he wanted to see her, not talk to her on the phone.

Cursing himself for a fool, he rose, jerked his suit coat off the back of his chair and stalked toward the door.

The white-haired, bespectacled secretary glanced up from behind a desk piled high with files. “Where’re you headed, Pierce?”

“Recruit school,” he muttered.

Thirty minutes later, an OCPD academy instructor pointed Grant toward the gym. He went through the high double doors and froze. He blinked as if to clear his vision, but there was nothing wrong with his eyes. It was his heart that had stopped at the sight of Sky lying flat on her back, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders as her hand rose silkily upward and slid around the neck of the man straddling her.

“What the hell?” A mix of anger and fang-infested jealousy consumed Grant. Then he saw red.

Fists clenched, he’d made it halfway across the gym’s waxed floor when the man’s head jerked up. A second later, the triumph in the bastard’s eyes shot to wariness, then his body jerked and flew sideways. Air escaped his lungs with a muffled “Oof” when he landed hard on the padded mat that covered a section of the wood floor.

Grant skidded to a halt just as Sky bounded to her feet, clearly unaware of his presence. “Okay, recruit, you wanted to know how to get up when somebody has you down. That’s how.”

Face flushed, lungs heaving, the man looked up and shook his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Stop saying Yes, ma’am, and get up!” Sky commanded. “If you stay down, Johansen, you’re a target.”

He got up…slowly.

“Fast. Get up fast. You’re vulnerable when you’re down.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Through hooded eyes, Grant watched the recruit. He was young, tall and good-looking. His gray police academy T-shirt and gym shorts molded to the strong, toned body of an athlete.

“Rush me,” Sky said. It didn’t seem to matter that the top of her head came just to the hulk’s shoulders.

Where her opponent had bulk and power, she had grace and speed. She sidestepped his rush, kicked his legs out from under him and had the sole of her tennis shoe against his throat the instant he hit the mat. “You’re dead. I just crushed your windpipe.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the hulk croaked.

Grant felt a stiff tic of pride at how effortlessly she’d toppled the mountain.

She stepped back from her prey. “Don’t stiffen when you fall. You have to be boneless, Johansen. Boneless. When you hit, roll and get back up on your feet in one fluid move. You might wind up dead if you don’t.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Practice with the other recruits.” Slicking the back of her hand across her forehead, Sky leaned and retrieved a hair clip off the edge of the mat. “If you need more help, you can reach me at the lab,” she added, then turned and nearly collided with Grant.

“Having fun with the cavewoman routine, Milano?”

Her eyes widened and went dark. “Maybe.”

Her glossy black hair was a gorgeous mess, her cheeks were flushed, her flesh slicked with sweat. Her breathing came fast and hard; her breasts moved rapidly up and down against the baggy T-shirt marked Academy Instructor that she’d tucked into a pair of loose-fitting gym shorts. The smell of woman and heat pulsed off her in little waves. Grant wanted to pummel the hulk into the mat just because he’d touched her.

“Get lost, recruit,” Grant said, keeping his eyes locked with hers.

“Yes, sir.” Johansen jogged across the gym, the rubber soles of his shoes squeaking against the shiny waxed floor.

“No need to be rude,” Sky said as her student shoved through the swinging door that led to the locker rooms.

“You have to be rude to recruits. It’s the law.”

She arched an eyebrow. “That one must have gotten by me.”

“I came in upstairs by the classrooms.” The mugginess in the air had Grant slipping out of his suit coat and hooking it on a finger over one shoulder. “One of the instructors pointed me in this direction. I thought you were teaching recruit school this afternoon about the exciting world of the forensic lab.”

“I teach that block of classes next month.” She took a few steps and retrieved a white hand towel off a metal stand that held a row of basketballs. “When this academy started, I signed on to help teach self-defense to the female recruits. That’s what I did this afternoon.”

“Female recruits?” Grant gave her a cynical smile. “Your most recent student was a few quarts over the legal testosterone level.”

“Johansen asked for some extra help, so I stayed.”

“The guy could bench-press the entire SWAT team. You really think he needs tips on self-defense?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Not if he stays on his feet.” She blotted the towel across her forehead, then slowly down the seductive arch of her throat.

Grant felt heat streak straight to his loins.

“Johansen’s big and strong, like an ox,” Sky continued, apparently oblivious to what her ministrations were doing to him. “That’s to his detriment if some scumbag manages to knock him off his feet. When he’s down, Johansen lumbers around trying to get back up. Meanwhile he could get shot. Or stabbed.” Her eyes closed briefly. “He recognizes his limits, and he asked for my help.”

Grant knew there was sense in that, but at the moment he didn’t want logic. He wanted to touch that tanned, moist flesh so bad he could taste it. Taste her.

Drawing in a slow breath, he took a casual step forward. “Want to go a few rounds with me, Milano?”

The hand gripping the towel froze against her throat. Her gaze skittered to his mouth, then to his eyes, then settled back to his mouth. She swallowed hard. “No.”

“It’s one thing to take on a goo-goo-eyed recruit who’s afraid to toss the instructor—”

“I didn’t give him the chance to toss me.”

“Really?” The defensive thread in her voice had Grant fighting a smile. When they’d first met, he’d savored the verbal sparring they’d engaged in. Then their relationship got personal and everything changed. And ended. Somehow, after months of silence, they’d all of a sudden slid back into sparring mode. Standing there, in the expansive gym that smelled vaguely of hard workouts, Grant knew there was no way they’d wind up rolling around together on the mat. He knew Sky knew that, too. But, dammit, he was enjoying just being with her after so long and he wanted to prolong the pleasure of the moment.

“When I walked in here, Milano, your student had you flat on your back.”

Her chin rose. “I let Johansen put me there. He wanted to know how to recover when someone knocked him down. I showed him.”

“Hmm.” Grant took another step forward and leaned in. The sweet, compelling scent of her hair drew him, and without thinking, he turned his head, inhaled. And savored. “He had you flat on your back,” he whispered against her cheek.

She took a jerky step sideways. “I had control of the situation.” Her fingers clenched and unclenched on the towel. “Total control.”

“He had you pinned—”

“Not even close. I had full use of my legs. He hadn’t even managed to restrain my arms. I could have disabled him with one palm strike to the nose.”

“You could have killed him with a palm strike to the nose.”

“My point, exactly.”

From behind Grant, the echo of voices filled the air; he turned in time to see two brawny patrol officers clad in gym shorts and muscle shirts push through the door. They acknowledged his presence with a nod. The taller of the two men snared a basketball off the metal stand and lobbed it to his partner, then grabbed another ball and dribbled off toward the hoop.

Grant turned back, his eyes locking with Sky’s. He had never seen her with her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. Never gazed into the stark blueness of her eyes without looking through the lenses of her glasses. Never glimpsed her in shorts with her bare legs long and tanned and soft. It hit him then, that if he could get his hands on that barrier she’d put between them months ago, he’d rip it apart.

He let out a slow breath against the realization. Barrier or no barrier, he wasn’t ready to let her go—not yet.

“Come on, Milano. Some scumbag might knock me on my butt someday. Maybe if you gave me some pointers—”

“You’re not a recruit. You’re trained, and you’ve worked the street. You know how to move.”

“True. But I might be rusty.”

She shook her head. “You don’t have a rusty move in your body, Pierce.” She glanced in the direction of the clock bolted high on the wall, then looped the towel around her neck. “I’ve got two minutes to turn in my class-evaluation sheets before the office closes.”

Lips pursed, Grant studied the graceful swing of her hips as she turned and walked away. When he heard an appreciative grunt, he shifted his gaze. Both patrol cops were dribbling their basketballs in place, their gazes plastered on Sky’s trim bottom. The familiar tightness that settled deep inside Grant had him acknowledging that his desire for her was unchanged, as sharp as ever. Maybe sharper.

“Great,” he muttered, shoving his fingers through his hair. Offhand, he could think of about six women who’d be happy to spend time in his company. What the hell kind of idiot was he, trying to steal a few extra minutes with a woman who had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him? He turned to go, then remembered what had brought him to the Training Center in the first place: Sky’s phone call.

She’d just cleared the opposite side of the mat when he jogged up behind her. Reaching, he snagged her shoulder. “What did you call—”

Before he could even react, she’d jerked his arm almost out of the socket and flipped him. For a breathless second, Grant had the sensation of flying. Then he landed hard, flat on his back.

The catcalls and whistles from the two patrol cops echoed off the gym’s cement block walls and high ceiling.

“Oh, God.” Sky crouched, patting his cheek with her fingertips. “Grant, are you okay?”

He shoved up on his elbows and blinked away stars. “Damn, Milano.”

“I’m sorry.” She leaned closer, her eyes anxious as she peered at his face. Her dark hair swept forward, bringing her maddening soft scent into his lungs. “It was reflex, Grant. I just reacted to your touch, that’s all.”

He gave her a dark look. “Yeah. Thanks for saying that. I feel a whole lot better now.”